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LOTHAIR. 

A Novel. 

Right Hon. BENJAMIN DISRAELI, 

Late Prime Minister of Great Britain. 


“Nosse liaec omnia salus est adolescentulis.” — T erextius. 


After a silence of twenty-tliree years (his last work, “ Tancred,” was published in 
1847), this eminent English novelist reappears with a work in his best style. “ Lotliair ” 
has all the brilliant wit, the keen and sparkling satire, and the refined grace, of the most 
popular of its predecessors. It deals with current topics of the deepest interest — with 
Fenianism, Ritualism, the Catholic question, the intrigues of the Jesuits, etc., etc. 


NOTICES OF THE PRESS. 

From the London Daily News. 

“ There is not a fast character, a fast trait, or a fast phrase, in the whole of ‘ Lothair,’ yet the story is a 
story of yesterday— almost of to-day — and comes fresh and warm from the author's study. . . 4 Lothair ’ will 
be read by the whole world, will provoke immense discussion, and will greatly deepen the interest with 
which the author's own character, genius, and career, have long been contemplated by the nation.” 

From the London Times. 

44 ‘Lothair 1 gives proof of rare originality, versatility, flexibility, force, and freshness. One can only glance 
t ver the merits of a novel so pregnant with thought and character, nor would we wish to do more were it pos- 
sible. We should be very sorry to weaken the interest that must accompany the perusal of the book. We 
had thought Mr. Disraeli dared a great deal in risking his reputation on another novel, but now that we have 
read it we do not feel called upon to pay him many compliments on his courage. As he wrote he must have 
felt that the risk was illusory, and assured himseli' that his powers had brightened instead of rusting in half 
a lifetime of repose.” 

From the London Observer. 

44 As a series of brilliant sketches of character, with occasional digressions into abstract and speculative 
topics , 4 Lothair’ need not fear comparison with the most sparkling of its author’s previous works.” 

From the London Standard. 

‘‘Nothing of the original verve of Mr. Disraeli’s style has been lost by the lapse of years. Fresh as 4 Con- 
?ngsby,’ vigorous as 4 Vivian Grey,’ tender as * Henrietta Temple,’ enthralling as ‘Tancred.’ humorous as any 
of his former works, ‘Lothair,’ apart from the interest attaching to it on account of the position of its author, 
would be the literary success of the season.” 

From the New York Tribune. 

44 As a literary production the new story is all that the admirers of 4 Vivian Grey ’ could have wished. The 
deft hand has lost none of its cunning. The wealth of ‘ lowing description, whose richness becomes at times 
almost a painful enjoyment, the keen satire, the sparkling epigram, the wonderful sketches of society, the 
airy skimming over the surface of life, touching upon its fashionable graces, laughing a little at its fashion- 
able follies — all are here as we knew them of old. The brightness is undimmed and the spirit is unsubdued.” 

1 vo!,, cloth, 12mo, price $2.00; also, in paper, octavo, price $1.00. 

*** Copies of either mailed, post-free, to any address within the United States, on receipt of price. 


UNIFORM EDITION OF 

DISRAELIS NOVELS. 

The undersigned will publish immediately a cheap uniform edition of Disraeli’s 
Novels, octavo, paper covers, as follows : 

T. Henrietta Temple. 50c. IV. Alroy. 50c. 

II. Venetia. 50c. V. Contarini Fleming. 50c. 

III. The Young Du Ac. 50c. VI. Vivian Grey. 60c. 

D. APPLETON & CO., Publishers, 

90, 92 & 94 Grand Street, New York. 


CONING-SBY; 


OR, 


THE HEW GENERATION. 


BY THE 


RIGHT HOI. BENJAMIN DISRAELI, 




AUTHOR OF 


“LOTHAIR,” “ CONTARINI FLEMING,” “HENRIETTA TEMPLE,” “VIVIAN GREY,” 
“VENETIA,” “MIRIAM ALROY,” ETC., ETC. 


NEW YOKK : 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 

90, 92 & 94 GRAND STREET. 

1870 . 



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4 8 6S 5 5 

AUG 1 3 1942 











TO 

HENE Y HOPE. 


It is not because this work was conceived and partly executed amid the 
glades and galleries of the Deepdene that I have inscribed it with your name. 
Nor merely because I was desirous to avail myself of the most graceful privi- 
lege of an author, and dedicate my work to the friend whose talents I have 
always appreciated, and whose virtues I have ever admired. 

But because in these pages I have endeavored to picture something of that 
development of the new, and, as I believe, better mind of England, that has 
often been the subject of our converse and speculation. 

In this volume you will find many a thought illustrated and many a prin- 
ciple attempted to be established that we have often together partially dis- 
cussed and canvassed. Doubtless you may encounter some opinions with 
which you may not agree, and some conclusions the accuracy of which you may 
find cause to question. But if I have generally succeeded in my object — to 
scatter some suggestions that may tend to elevate the tone of public life, ascer- 
tain the true character of political parties, and induce us for the future more 
carefully to distinguish between facts and phrases, realities and phantoms — I 
believe that I shall gain your sympathy, for I shall find a reflex to their efforts 
in your own generous spirit and enlightened mind. 


Grosvenor Gate, May-Day, 1844. 


PREFACE TO THE FIFTH EDITION. (1849.) 


“ Coningsby” was published in the year 1844. 
The main purpose of its writer was to vindicate 
the just claims of the Tory party to be the 
popular political confederation of the country ; 
a purpose which he had, more or less, pursued 
from a very early period of life. The occasion 
was favorable to the attempt. The youthful 
mind of England had just recovered from the 
inebriation of the great Conservative triumph of 
1841, and was beginning to inquire what, after 
all, they had conquered to preserve. It was op- 
portune therefore to show that Toryism was not 
a phrase, but a fact, and that our political insti- 
tutions were the embodiment of our popular ne- 
cessities. This the writer endeavored to do with- 
out prejudice, and to treat of events and charac- 
ters of which he had some personal experience, 
not altogether without the impartiality of the 
future. 

It was not originally the intention of the 
writer to adopt the form of fiction as the instru- 
ment to scatter his suggestions ; but, after reflec- 
tion, he resolved to avail himself of a method 
which, in the temper of the times, offered the 
best chance of influencing opinion. 

In considering the Tory scheme, the author 
recognized in the Church the most powerful 
agent in the previous development of England, 
and the most efficient means of that renovation 
of the national spirit at which he aimed. The 
Church is a sacred corporation for the promul- 
gation and maintenance in Europe of certain 
Asian principles, which, although local in their 
birth, are of divine origin, and of universal and 
eternal application. 

In asserting the paramount character of the 
ecclesiastical polity and the majesty of the theo- 
cratic principle, it became necessary to ascend to 
the origin of the Christian Church, and to meet, 
in a spirit worthy of a critical and comparatively 
enlightened age, the position of the descendants 
of that race who were the founders of Chris- 
tianity. The modern Jews had long labored un- 
der the odium and stigma of mediaeval malev- 
olence. In the dark ages, when history was un- 
known, the passions of societies, undisturbed by 
traditionary experience, were strong, and their 
convictions, unmitigated by criticism, were neces- 


sarily fanatical. The Jews were looked upon in 
the middle ages as an accursed race — the enemies 
of God and man — the especial foes of Christianity. 
No one in those days paused to reflect that Chris- 
tianity was founded by the Jews; that its Divine 
Author, in his human capacity, was a descendant 
of King David ; that his doctrines avowedly were 
the completion, not the change, of Judaism ; that 
the apostles and the evangelists, whose names 
men daily invoked, and whose volumes they em- 
braced with reverence, were all Jews; that the 
infallible throne of Rome itself was established 
by a Jew ; and that a Jew was the founder of the 
Christian Churches of Asia. 

The European nations, relatively speaking, 
were then only recently converted to a belief in 
Moses and in Christ, and, as it were, still ashamed 
of the wild deities whom they had deserted, they 
thought they atoned for their past idolatry by 
wreaking their vengeance on a race to whom, 
and to whom alone, they were indebted for the 
Gospel they adored. 

In vindicating the sovereign right of the 
Church of Christ to be the perpetual regenerator 
of man, the writer thought the time had arrived 
when some attempt should be made to do justice 
to the race which had founded Christianity. 

The writer has developed in another work 
(“ Tancred ”) the views respecting the great 
house of Israel, which he first intimated in 
“ Coningsby.” No one has attempted to refute 
them, nor is refutation possible ; since all he has 
done is to examine certain facts in the truth of 
which all agree, and to draw from them irresist- 
ible conclusions which prejudice for a moment 
may shrink from, but which reason cannot refuse 
to admit. 

The success of this work was not question- 
able. Three considerable editions were sold in 
this country in three months . -it was largely cir- 
culated throughout the Continent of Europe, and, 
within a very brief period, more than fifty thou- 
sand copies were required in the United States 
of America. In the fifth year of its life, the 
writer has been called upon to prepare its fifth 
edition. 

D. 

Grosvenor Gate, May , 1849. 


CONINGSBY. 


B O OK I. 

CHAPTER I. 

It was a bright May morning some twelve 
years ago, when a youth of still tender age, for 
he had certainly not entered his teens by more 
than two years, was ushered into the waiting-room 
of a house in the vicinity of St. James’s Square, 
w r hich, though with the general appearance of a 
private residence, and that, too, of no very am- 
bitious character, exhibited at this period symp- 
toms of being occupied for some public purpose. 

The house-door was constantly opened, and 
frequent guests even at this early hour crossed 
the threshold. The hall-table was covered with 
sealed letters ; and the hall-porter inscribed in a 
book the name of every individual who entered. 

The young gentleman we have mentioned 
found himself in a room which offered few re- 
sources for his amusement. A large table amply 
covered with writing materials, and a few chairs, 
were its sole furniture, except the grey drugget 
that covered the floor, and a muddy mezzotinto 
of the Duke of Wellington that adorned its cold 
walls. There was not even a newspaper ; and 
the only books were the Court Guide and the 
London Directory. For some time he remained 
with patient endurance planted against the wall, 
with his feet resting on the rail of his chair ; but 
at length in his shifting posture he gave evidence 
of his restlessness, rose from his seat, looked 
out of the -window into a Stnall side court of the 
house surrounded with dead walls, paced the 
room, took up the Court Guide, changed it for 
the London Directory, then wrote his name over 
several sheets of foolscap paper, drew various 
landscapes and faces of his friends ; and then, 
splitting up a pen or tw r o, delivered himself of a 
yawn which seemed the climax of his weariness. 

And yet the youth’s appearance did not beto- 
ken a character that, if the opportunity had of- 
fered, could not have found amusement and even 
instruction. His countenance, radiant with health 
and the lustre of innocence, was at the same time 
thoughtful and resolute. The expression of his 
deep blue eye was serious. Without extreme 
regularity of features, the face was one that 
would never have passed unobserved. His short 
upper lip indicated a good breed ; and his chest- 


nut curls clustered over his open brow, while his 
shirt-collar thrown over his shoulders was unre- 
strained by handkerchief or ribbon. Add to this 
a limber and graceful figure, w r hich the jacket of 
his boyish dress exhibited to great advantage. 

Just as the youth, mounted on a chair, was 
adjusting the portrait of the Duke, which he had 
observed to be awry, the gentleman for whom he 
had been all this time waiting entered the room. 

“ Floreat Etona ! ” hastily exclaimed the gen- 
tleman, in a sharp voice ; “ you are setting the 
Duke to rights. I have left you a long time a 
prisoner ; but I found them so busy here, that I 
made my escape with some difficulty.” 

He -who uttered these words w r as a man of 
middle size and age, originally in all probability 
of a spare habit, but now a little inclined to cor- 
pulency. Baldness, perhaps, contributed to the 
spiritual expression of a brow, -which was, how- 
ever, essentially intellectual, and gave some char- 
acter of openness to a countenance which, though 
not ill-favored, w r as unhappily stamped by a sinis- 
ter cast that was not to be mistaken. His man- 
ner w r as easy, but rather audacious than well- 
bred. Indeed, while a visage which might other- 
wise be described as handsome was spoilt by a 
dishonest glance, so a demeanor that was by no 
means deficient in self-possession and facility, was 
tainted by an innate vulgarity, which in the long 
run, though seldom, yet surely developed itself. 

The youth had jumped off" his chair on the en- 
trance of the gentleman, and then, taking up his 
hat, said : 

“ Shall we go to grandpapa now, sir ? ” 

“ By all means, my dear boy,” said the gentle- 
man, putting his arm within that of the youth ; 
and they were just on the point of leaving the 
waiting-room, when the door was suddenly thrown 
open, and two individuals, in a state of great ex- 
citement, rushed into the apartment. 

“ Rigby — Rigby ! ” they both exclaimed at the 
same moment. “ By G — , they’re out ! ” 

“ Who told you ? ” 

“ The best authority ; one of themselves.” 

“ Who— who ? ” 

“ Paul Evelyn ; I met him as I passed 
Brookes’s, and he told me that Lord Grey had re- 
signed, and the King had accepted bis resigna- 
tion.” 

But Mr. Rigby, who, though very fond of 
news, and much interested in the present, w as 


6 


CONINGSBY. 


extremely jealous of any one giving him informa- 
tion, was sceptical. He declared that Paul Evelyn 
was always wrong ; that it was morally impossible 
that Paul Evelyn ever could be right; that he 
knew, from the highest authority, that Lord 
Grey had been twice yesterday with the King ; 
that on the last visit nothing was settled ; that if 
he had been at the palace again to-day, he could 
not have been there before twelve o’clock ; that it 
was only now a quarter to one ; that Lord Grey 
would have called his colleagues together on his re- 
turn ; that at least an hour must have elapsed before 
any thing could possibly have transpired. Then 
he compared and criticised the dates of every 
rumored incident of the last twenty-four hours 
(and nobody was stronger in dates than Mr. 
Rigby) ; counted even the number of stairs which 
the minister had to ascend and descend in his 
visit to the palace, and the time their mountings 
and dismountings must have consumed (detail 
was Mr. Rigby’s forte) ; and finally, what with his 
dates, his private information, his knowledge of 
palace localities, his contempt for Paul Evelyn, 
and his confidence in himself, he succeeded in per- 
suading his downcast and disheartened friends 
that their comfortable intelligence had not the 
slightest foundation. 

They all left the room together ; they were in 
the hall ; the gentlemen who brought the news 
looked somewhat depressed, but Mr. Rigby gay, 
even amid the prostration of his party, from the 
consciousness that he had most critically demol- 
ished a piece of political gossip and conveyed a 
certain degree of mortification to a couple of his 
companions ; when a travelling carriage and four 
with a ducal coronet drove up to the house. The 
door was thrown open, the steps dashed down, 
and a youthful noble sprang from his chariot into 
the hall. 

“ Good-morning, Rigby,” said the Duke. 

“ I see your Grace well, I am sure,” said Mr. 
Rigby, with a softened manner. 

“You have heard the news, gentlemen?” 
the Duke continued. 

“ What news ? Yes — no — that is to say — 
Mr. Rigby thinks — ” 

“ You know, of course, that Lord Lyndhurst 
is with the king ? ” 

“ It is impossible,” said Mr. Rigby. 

“ I don’t think I can be mistaken,” said the 
Duke, smiling. 

“ I will show your Grace that it is impossible,” 
said Mr. Rigby. “ Lord Lyndhurst slept at Wim- 
bledon. Lord Grey could not have seen the King 
until twelve o’clock ; it is now five minutes to 
one. It is impossible, therefore, that any mes- 
sage from the King could have reached Lord 
Lyndhurst in time for his Lordship to be at the 
palace at this moment.” 

“ But my authority is a high one,” said the 
Duke. 

“ Authority is a phrase,” said Mr. Rigby ; 
“ we must look to time and place, dates and lo- 
calities, to discover the truth.” 

“Your Grace was saying that your authority 
— ” ventured to observe Mr. Tadpole, emboldened 
by the presence of a duke, his patron, to strug- 
gle against the despotism of a Rigby, his tyrant. 

“ Was the highest,” rejoined the Duke, smil- 
ing, “ for it was Lord Lyndhurst himself. I came 


up from Nuneham this morning, passed his Lord- 
ship’s house in Hyde Park Place as he was get- 
ting into his carriage in full dress, stopped my 
own, and learned in a breath, that the Whigs 
were out, and that the King had sent for the 
Chief Baron. So I came on here at once.” 

“ I always thought the country was sound at 
bottom,” exclaimed Mr. Taper, who, under the 
old system, had sneaked into the Treasury Board. 

Tadpole and Taper were great friends. Neither 
of them ever despaired of the Commonwealth. 
Even if the Reform Bill were passed, Taper was 
convinced that the Whigs would never prove men 
of business ; and when his friends confessed 
among themselves that a Tory Government was 
for the future impossible, Taper would remark, 
in a confidential whisper, that for his part he be- 
lieved before the year was over the Whigs would 
be turned out by the clerks. 

“ There is no doubt that there is considerable 
reaction,” said Mr. Tadpole. “ The infamous 
conduct of the Whigs in the Amersham case has 
opened the public mind more than any thing.” 

“ Aldborough w r as worse,” said Mr. Taper. 

“ Terrible ! ” said Tadpole. “ They said there 
■was no use discussing the Reform Bill in our 
House. I believe Rigby’s great speech on Ald- 
borough has done more towards the reaction 
than all the violence of the Political Unions put 
together.” 

“ Let us hope for the best,” said the Duke, 
mildly. “ ’Tis a bold step on the part of the Sov- 
ereign, and I am free to say I could have wished 
it postponed ; but we must support the King like 
men. What say you, Rigby ? You are silent.” 

“ I am thinking how very unfortunate it was 
that I did not breakfast with Lyndhurst this 
morning, as I was nearly doing, instead of going 
down to Eton.” 

“ To Eton ! and why to Eton ? ” 

“ For the sake of my young friend here, Lord 
Monmouth’s grandson. By the bye, you are kins- 
men. Let me present to your Grace — Mr. Con- 
ingsby.” 


CHAPTER II. 

The political agitation which for a year and a 
half had shaken England to its centre, received, 
if possible, an increase to its intensity and viru- 
lence, when it was known, in the early part of 
the month of May, 1832, that the Prime Minister 
had tendered his resignation to the King, which 
resignation had been graciously accepted. 

The amendment carried by the Opposition in 
the House of Lords on the evening of the 7th of 
May, that the enfranchising clauses of the Re- 
form Bill should be considered before entering 
into the question of disfranchisement, was the im- 
mediate cause of this startling event. The Lords 
had previously consented to the second reading 
of the Bill with the view of preventing that large 
increase of their numbers with which they had 
been long menaced ; rather, indeed, by mysteri- 
ous rumors than by any official declaration ; but, 
nevertheless, in a manner which had carried con- 
viction to no inconsiderable portion of the Oppo- 
sition that the threat was not without foundation. 

During the progress of the Bill through the 


“THE WAVERERS.” 


7 


Lower House, the journals which were looked 
upon as the organs of the ministry had announced 
with unhesitating confidence, that Lord Grey 
was armed with what was then called a “ carte 
blanche ” to create any number of peers neces- 
sary to insure its success. But public journalists 
w'ho were under tbe control of the ministry, and 
whose statements were never contradicted, were 
not the sole authorities for this prevailing belief. 
Members of the House of Commons, who were 
strong supporters of the cabinet, though not con- 
nected with it by any official tie, had unequivo- 
cally stated in their places that the Sovereign had 
not resisted the advice of his counsellors to create 
peers, if such creation were required to carry into 
effect wdiat was then styled “ the great national 
measure.” In more than one instance, ministers 
had been warned, that if they did not exercise 
that power with prompt energy, they might de- 
serve impeachment. And these intimations and 
announcements had been made in the presence 
of leading members of the Government, aud had 
received from them, at least, the sanction of their 
silence. 

It did not subsequently appear that the Re- 
form ministers had been invested with any such 
power ; but a conviction of the reverse, fostered 
by these circumstances, had successfully acted 
upon the nervous temperament, or the statesman- 
like prudence, of a certain section of the peers, 
who consequently hesitated in their course — were 
known as being no longer inclined to pursue their 
policy of the preceding session — had thus ob- 
tained a title at that moment in everybody’s 
mouth — the title of “ the Waverers.” 

Notwithstanding, therefore, the opposition of 
the Duke of Wellington and of Lord Lyndhurst, 
the Waverers carried the second reading of the 
Reform Bill; and then, scared at the conse- 
quences of their own headstrong timidity, they 
■went in a fright to the Duke and his able adviser 
to extricate them from the inevitable result of 
their own conduct. The ultimate device of these 
distracted counsels, w r h ere daring and poltroonery, 
principle and expediency, public spirit and pri- 
vate intrigue, each threw an ingredient into the 
turbulent spell, was the celebrated and successful 
amendment to which we have referred. 

But the Whig ministers, who, wdiatever may 
have been their faults, were at least men of intel- 
lect and courage, were not to be beaten by “ the 
Waverers.” They might have made terms with 
an audacious foe ; they trampled on a hesitating 
opponent. Lord Grey hastened to the palace. 

Before the result of this appeal to the Sov- 
ereign was known, for its effects were not imme- 
diate, on the second morning after the vote in 
the House of Lords, Mr. Rigby had made that 
visit to Eton which had summoned very unex- 
pectedly the youthful Coningsby to London. He 
was the orphan child of the youngest of the two 
sons of the Marquess of Monmouth. It was a 
family famous for its hatreds. The eldest son 
hated his father ; and, it was said, in spite had 
married a lady to whom that father was attached, 
and with whom Lord Monmouth then meditated 
a second alliance. This eldest son lived at Na- 
ples, and had several children, but maintained no 
connection either with his parent or his native 
country. On the other hand, Lord Monmouth 


hated his younger son, who had married, against 
his consent, a woman to whom that son was de- 
voted. A system of domestic persecution, sus- 
tained by the hand of a master, had eventually 
broken up the health of its victim, who died of a 
fever in a foreign country, where he had sought 
some refuge from his creditors. 

His widow returned to England with her child ; 
and, not having a relation, and scarcely an ac- 
quaintance, in the world, made an appeal to her 
husband’s father, the wealthiest noble in Eng- 
land, and a man who was often prodigal, and oc- 
casionally generous. After some time, and more 
trouble, after urgent and repeated, and what 
would have seemed heart-rending, solicitations, 
the attorney of Lord Monmouth called upon the 
widow of his client’s son, and informed her of 
his Lordship’s decision. Provided she gave up 
her child, and permanently resided in one of the 
remotest counties, he was authorized to make 
her, in four quarterly payments, the yearly al- 
lowance of three hundred pounds, that being the 
income that Lord Monmouth, who was the 
shrewdest accountant in the country, had calcu- 
lated a lone woman might very decently exist 
upon in a small market town in the county of 
Westmoreland. 

Desperate necessity, the sense of her own for- 
lornness, the utter impossibility to struggle with 
an omnipotent foe, who, her husband had taught 
her, was above all scruples, prejudices, and fears, 
and who, though he respected law, despised opin- 
ion, made the victim yield. But her sufferings 
were not long; the separation from her child, 
the bleak clime, the strange faces around her, 
sharp memory, and the dull routine of an unim- 
passioned life, all combined to wear out a consti- 
tution originally frail, and since shattered by 
many sorrows. Mrs. Coningsby died the same 
day that her father-in-law was made a Marquess. 
He deserved his honors. The four votes he had 
inherited in the House of Commons had been in- 
creased, by his intense volition and unsparing 
means, to ten ; and the very day he was raised to 
his Marquisate, he commenced sapping fresh cor- 
porations, and w r as working for the strawberry 
leaf. His honors were proclaimed in the London ’ 
Gazette, and her decease was not even noticed in 
the County Chronicle ; but the altars of Nemesis 
are beneath every outraged roof, and the death of 
this unhappy lady, apparently without an earthly 
friend or an earthly hope, desolate and deserted, 
and dying in obscure poverty, was not forgotten. 

Coningsby was not more than nine years of 
age when he lost his last parent ; and he had then 
been separated from her for nearly three years. 
But he remembered the sweetness of his nursery 
days. His mother, too, had written to him fre- 
quently since he quitted her, and her fond expres- 
sions had cherished the tenderness of his heart. 
He wept bitterly when his school-master broke 
to him the news of his mother’s death. True it 
was they had been long parted, and their pros- 
pect of again meeting w r as vague and dim ; but 
his mother seemed to him his only link to human 
society. It was something to have a mother, even 
if he never saw her. Other boys went to see 
their mothers ! he, at least, could talk of his. 
Now he was alone. His grandfather was to him 
only a name. Lord Monmouth resided almost 


8 


CONINGSBY. 


constantly abroad, and during his rare visits to 
England had found no time or inclination to see 
the orphan with whom he felt no sympathy. 
Even the death of the boy’s mother, and the con- 
sequent arrangements, were notified to his master 
by a stranger. The letter which brought the sad 
intelligence was from Mr. Rigby. It was the first 
time that name had been known to Coningsby. 

Mr. Rigby was a member from one of Lord 
Monmouth’s boroughs. He was the manager of 
Lord Monmouth’s parliamentary influence, and 
the auditor of his vast estates. He was more ; 
he was Lord Monmouth’s companion when in 
England, his correspondent when abroad — hardly 
his counsellor, for Lord Monmouth never re- 
quired advice ; but Mr. Rigby could instruct him 
in matters of detail, which Mr. Rigby made amus- 
ing. Rigby was not a professional man ; indeed, 
his origin, education, early pursuits, and studies, 
were equally obscure ; but he had contrived in 
good time to squeeze himself into Parliament, by 
means which no one could ever comprehend, and 
then set up to be a perfect man of business. The 
world took him at his word, for he was bold, 
acute, and voluble ; with no thought, but a good 
deal of desultory information ; and, though desti- 
tute of all imagination and noble sentiment, was 
blessed with a vigorous, mendacious fancy, fruit- 
ful in small expedients, and never happier than 
when devising shifts for great men’s scrapes. 

They say that all of us have one chance in 
this life, and so it was with Rigby. After a strug- 
gle of many years, after a long series of the 
usual alternatives of small successes and small 
failures, after a few cleverish speeches and a 
good many cleverish pamphlets, with a consider- 
able reputation, indeed, for pasquinades, most of 
which he never wrote, and articles in reviews to 
which it was whispered he had contributed, Rig- 
by, who had already intrigued himself into a sub- 
ordinate office, met with Lord Monmouth. 

He was just the animal that Lord Monmouth 
wanted, for Lord Monmouth always looked upon 
human nature with the callous eye of a jockey. 
He surveyed Rigby, and he determined to buy him. 
He bought him ; with his clear head, his inde- 
fatigible industry, his audacious tongue, and his 
ready and unscrupulous pen ; with all his dates, 
all his lampoons ; all his private memoirs, and all 
his political intrigues. It was a good purchase. 
Rigby became a great personage, and Lord Mon- 
mouth’s man. 

Mr. Rigby, who liked to be doing a great many 
things at the same time, and to astonish the Tad- 
poles and Tapers with his energetic versatility, 
determined to superintend the education of Con- 
ingsby. It was a relation which identified him 
with the noble house of his pupil, or, properly 
speaking, his charge: for Mr. Rigby affected 
rather the graceful dignity of the governor than 
the duties of a tutor. The boy was recalled from 
his homely, rural school, where he had been well 
grounded by a hard-working curate, and affec- 
tionately tended by the curate’s unsophisticated 
wife. lie was sent to a fashionable school pre- 
paratory to Eton, where he found about two hun- 
dred youths of noble families and connections, 
lodged in a magnificent villa that had once been 
the retreat of a minister, superintended by a syc- 
ophantic Doctor of Divinity, already well bene- 


ficed, and not despairing of a bishopric by favor- 
ing the children of the great nobles. The doctor’s 
lady, clothed in cashmeres, sometimes inquired 
after their health, and occasionally received a re- 
port as to their linen. 

Mr. Rigby had a classical retreat, not distant 
from this establishment, which he esteemed a 
Tusculum. There, surrounded by his busts and 
books, he wrote his lampoons and articles ; mas- 
sacred a she liberal (it was thought that no one 
could lash a woman like Rigby), cut up a rising 
genius whose politics were different from his 
own, or scarified some unhappy wretch who had 
brought his claims before Parliament, proving, by 
garbled extracts from official correspondence that 
no one could refer to, that the malcontent, in- 
stead of being a victim, was, on the contrary, a 
defaulter. Tadpole and Taper would back Rigby 
for a “ slashing reply ” against the field. Here, 
too, at the end of a busy week, he found it occa- 
sionally convenient to entertain a clever friend or 
two of equivocal reputation, with whom he had 
become acquainted in former days of equal broth- 
erhood. No one was more faithful to his early 
friends than Mr. Rigby, particularly if they could 
write a squib. 

It was in this refined retirement that Mr. Rig- 
by found time enough, snatched from the toils 
of official life and parliamentary struggles, to 
compose a letter on the study of History, ad- 
dressed to Coningsby. The style was as much 
like that of Lord Bolingbroke as if it had been 
writcn by the authors of the “Rejected Ad- 
dresses,” and it began, “My dear young friend.” 
This polished composition, so full of good feel- 
ing and comprehensive views, and all in the best 
taste, was not published. It was only privately 
printed, and a few thousand copies were distrib- 
uted among selected personages as an especial 
favor and mark of high consideration. Each copy 
given away seemed to Rigby like a certificate 
of character — a property which, like all men 
of dubious repute, he thoroughly appreciated! 
Rigby intrigued very much that the head master 
of Eton should adopt his discourse as a class- 
book. For this purpose he dined with the Doc- 
tor, told him several anecdotes of the King, which 
intimated personal influence at Windsor ; but the 
head master was inflexible, and so Mr. Rigby was 
obliged to be content with having his Letter on 
History canonized as a classic in the Preparatory 
Seminary, where the individual to whom it was 
addressed was a scholar. 

This change in the life of Coningsby contrib- 
uted to his happiness. The various characters 
which a large school exhibited interested a young 
mind whose active energies were beginning to 
stir. His previous acquirements made his studies 
light ; and he was fond of sports, in which he was 
qualified to excel. He did not particularly like 
Mr. Rigby. There was something jarring and 
grating in that gentleman’s voice and modes, 
from which the chords of the young heart shrank. 
He was not tender, though perhaps he wished to 
be ; scarcely kind : but he was good-natured, at 
least to children. However, this connection v r as, 
on the whole, a very agreeable one for Coningsby. 
He seemed suddenly to have friends ; he never 
passed his holydays again at school. Mr. Rigby 
was so clever that he contrived always to quarter 


ETON. 


9 


Coningsby on the father of one of his school-fel- 
lows, for Mr. Rigby knew all his school-fellows 
and all their fathers. Mr. Rigby also called to 
see him, not unfrequently would give him a din- 
ner at the Star and Garter, or even have him up 
to town for a week to Whitehall. Compared 
with his former forlorn existence, these were hap- 
py days, when he was placed under the gallery as 
a member’s son, or went to the play with the 
butler ! 

When Coningsby had attained his twelfth 
year, an order was received from Lord Mon- 
mouth, who was at Rome, that he should go at 
once to Eton. This was the first great epoch of 
his life. There never was a youth who entered 
into that wonderful little world with more eager 
zest than Coningsby. Nor was it marvellous. 

That delicious plain, studded with every crea- 
tion of graceful culture; hamlet and hall, and 
grange ; garden and grove, and park ; that castle- 
palace, grey with glorious ages ; those antique 
spires, hoar with faith and wisdom, the chapel 
and the college ; that river winding through the 
shady meads ; the sunny glade and the solemn 
avenue ; the room in the Dame’s house where we 
fii’st order our own breakfast and first feel we are 
free ; the stirring multitude, the energetic groups, 
the individual mind that leads, conquers, con- 
trols ; the emulation and the affection ; the noble 
strife and the tender sentiment ; the daring ex- 
ploit and the dashing scrape ; the passion that 
pervades our life, and breathes in every thing, 
from the aspiring study to the inspiring sport — 
oh ! what hereafter can spur the brain and touch 
the heart like this ; can give us a world so deep- 
ly and variously interesting; a life so full of 
quick and bright excitement — passed in a scene 
so fair ? 


CHAPTER III. 

Lord Monmouth, who detested popular tu- 
mults as much as he despised public opinion, had 
remained during the agitating year of 1831 in his 
luxurious retirement in Italy, contenting himself 
with opposing the Reform Bill by proxy. But 
when his correspondent, Mr. Rigby, had informed 
him, in the early part of the spring of 1832, of 
the probability of a change in the tactics of the 
Tory party, and that an opinion was becoming 
prevalent among their friends, that the great 
scheme must be defeated in detail rather than 
again withstood on principle, his Lordship, who 
was never wanting in energy when his own inter- 
ests were concerned, immediately crossed the 
Alps, and travelled rapidly to England. He in- 
dulged a hope that the weight of his presence and 
the influence of his strong character, which was 
at once shrewd and courageous, might induce his 
friends to relinquish their half-measure, a course 
to which his nature was very repugnant. At all 
events, if they persisted in their intention, and 
the Bill went into committee, his pi’esence was 
indispensable, for in that stage of a parliamentary 
proceeding proxies become ineffective. 

The counsels of Lord Monmouth, though they 
coincided with those of the Duke of Wellington, 
did not prevail with the Waverers. Several of 
these high-minded personages had had their win- 


dows broken, and they were not of opinion that 
a man who lived at Naples was a competent judge 
of the state of public feeling in England. Be- 
sides, the days are gone by for senates to have 
their beards plucked in the forum. We live in 
an age of prudence. The leaders of the people, 
now, generally follow. The truth is, the peers 
were in a fright. ’Twas a pity ; there is scarcely- 
a less dignified entity than a patrician in a panic. 

Among the most intimate companions of Con- 
ingsby at Etou, was Lord Henry Sydney, his kins- 
man. Coningsby had frequently passed his holy- 
days of late at Beaumanoir, the seat of the Duke, 
Lord Henry’s father. The Duke sat next to Lord 
Monmouth during the debate on the enfranchis- 
ing question, and to wile away the time, and from 
kindness of disposition, spoke, and spoke with 
warmth and favor, of his grandson. The polished 
Lord Monmouth bowed as if he were much grati- 
fied by this notice of one so dear to him. He had 
too much tact to admit that he had never yet 
seen his grandchild; but he asked some questions 
as to his progress and pursuits, his tastes and 
habits, which intimated the interest of an affec- 
tionate relative. 

Nothing, however, was ever lost upon Lord 
Monmouth. No one had a more retentive mem- 
ory, or a more observant mind. And the next 
day, when he received Mr. Rigby at his morning 
levee (Lord Monmouth performed this ceremony 
in the high style of the old court, and welcomed 
his visitors in bed), he said with imperturbable 
calmness, and as if he had been talking of trying 
a new horse, “ Rigby, I should like to see the boy 
at Eton.” 

There might be some objection to grant leave 
to Coningsby at this moment ; but it was a rule 
with Mr. Rigby never to make difficulties, or at 
least to persuade his patron that he, and he only, 
could remove them. He immediately undertook 
that the boy should be forthcoming, and, notwith- 
standing the excitement of the moment, he went 
off next morning to fetch him. 

They arrived in town rather early ; and Rig- 
by, wishing to know how affairs were going on, 
ordered the servant to drive immediately to the 
head-quarters of the party; where a permanent 
committee watched every phasis of the impend- 
ing revolution ; and where every member of the 
Opposition, of note and trust, was instantly ad- 
mitted to receive or to impart intelligence. 

It was certainly not without emotion that Con- 
ingsby contemplated his first interview with his 
grandfather. All his experience of the ties of 
relationship, however limited, was full of tender- 
ness and rapture. His memory often dwelt on 
his mother’s sweet embrace ; and ever and anon 
a fitful phantom of some past passage of domes- 
tic love haunted his gushing heart. The image 
of his father was less fresh in his mind ; but still 
it was associated with a vague sentiment of kind- 
ness and joy ; and the allusions to her husband in 
his mother’s letters had cherished these impres- 
sions. To notice lesser sources of influence in 
his estimate of the domestic tie, he had witnessed 
under the roof of Beaumanoir the existence of a 
family bound together by the most beautiful affec- 
tions. He could not forget how Henry Sydney 
was embraced by his sisters when he returned 
home; what frank and fraternal love existed be- 


10 


CONINGSBY. 


tween his kinsman and liis elder brother ; how 
affectionately the land Duke had welcomed his 
son once more to the house where they had both 
been born ; and the dim eyes, and saddened 
brows, and tones of tenderness, which rather 
looked than said farewell, when they went back 
to Eton. 

And these rapturous meetings and these 
mournful adieus were occasioned only by a sepa- 
ration at the most of a few months, softened by 
constant correspondence and the communication 
of mutual sympathy. But Coningsby was to meet 
a relation, his near, almost his only, relation, for 
the first time ; the relation, too, to whom he 
owed maintenance, education — it might be said, 
existence. It was a great incident for a great 
drama ; something tragical in the depth and stir 
of its emotions. Even the imagination of the boy 
could not be insensible to its materials ; and Con- 
ingsby was picturing to himself a beneficent and 
venerable gentleman pressing to his breast an 
agitated youth, when his reverie was broken by 
the carriage stopping before the gates of Mon- 
mouth House. 

The gates were opened by a gigantic Swiss, 
and the carriage rolled into a huge court-yard. 
At its end, Coningsby beheld a Palladian palace, 
with wings and colonnades encircling the court. 

A double flight of steps led into a circular and 
marble hall, adorned with colossal busts of the 
Caesars ; the staircase in fresco by Sir James 
Thornhill, breathed with the loves and wars of 
gods and heroes. It led into a vestibule, painted 
in arabesque, hung with Venetian girandoles, and 
looking into gardens. Opening a door in this 
chamber, and proceeding some little way down a 
corridor, Mr. Rigby and his companion arrived at 
the base of a private staircase. Ascending a few 
steps, they reached a landing-place hung with 
tapestry. Drawing this aside, Mr. Rigby opened 
a door, and ushered Coningsby through an ante- 
chamber into a small saloon, of beautiful propor- 
tions, and furnished in a brilliant and delicate 
taste. 

• “ You will find more to amuse you here than 
where you were before,” said Mr. Rigby, “ and I 
shall not be nearly so long absent.” So saying, 
he entered into an inner apartment. 

The walls of the saloon, which were covered 
with light-blue satin, held, in silver panels, por- 
traits of beautiful women, painted by Boucher. 
Couches and easy-chairs of every shape invited iu 
every quarter to luxurious repose ; while amuse- 
ment was afforded by tables covered w r ith carica- 
tures, French novels, and endless miniatures of 
foreign dancers, princesses, and sovereigns. 

But Coningsby was so impressed with the im- 
pending interview with his grandfather, that he 
neither sought nor required diversion. Now that 
the crisis was at hand, he felt agitated and ner- 
vous, and wished that he was again at Eton. The 
suspense was sickening, yet he dreaded still more 
the summons. He was not long alone ; the door 
opened — he started — grew pale — he thought it 
was his grandfather ; it was not even Mr. Rigby. 
It was Lord Monmouth’s valet. 

“ Monsieur Konigby ? ” 

“ My name is Coningsby,” said the boy. 

“ Milor is ready to receive you,” said the valet. 

Coningsby sprang forward with that despera- 


tion which the scaffold requires. His face was 
pale ; his hand was moist ; his heart beat with 
tumult. He had occasionally been summoned by 
Dr. Keate ; that, too, w r as awful work, but com- 
pared with the present, a morning visit. Music, 
artillery, the roar of cannon, and the blare of 
trumpets, may urge a man on to a forlorn hope ; 
ambition, one’s constituents, the hell of previous 
failure, may prevail on us to do a more desperate 
thing — speak in the House of Commons ; but 
there are some situations in life (such, for in- 
stance, as entering the room of a dentist), in 
which the prostration of the nervous system is 
absolute. 

The moment had at length arrived when the 
desolate was to find a benefactor, the forlorn a 
friend, the orphan a parent ; when the youth, 
after a childhood of adversity, w r as to be formally 
received into the bosom of the noble house from 
which he had been so long estranged, and at 
length to assume that social position to which his 
lineage entitled him. Manliness might support, 
affection might soothe, the happy anguish of such 
a meeting ; but it was undoubtedly one of those 
situations which stir up the deep fountains of our 
nature, and before which the conventional pro- 
prieties of our ordinary manners instantaneously 
vanish. 

Coningsby with an uncertain step followed his 
guide through a bed-chamber, the sumptuousness 
of which he could not notice, into the dressing- 
room of Lord Monmouth. Mr. Rigby, facing 
Coningsby as he entered, was leaning over the 
back of a large chair, from which, as Coningsby 
was announced by the valet, the Lord of the 
house slowly rose (for he was suffering slightly 
from the gout), his left hand resting on an ivory 
stick. Lord Monmouth was in height above the 
middle size, but somewhat portly and corpulent. 
His countenance was strongly marked ; sagacity 
on the brow, sensuality in the mouth and jaw. 
His head was bald, but there were remains of the 
rich brown locks on which he once prided him- 
self. His large deep blue eye, madid and yet 
piercing, showed that the secretions of his brain 
were apportioned, half to voluptuousness, half to 
common sense. But his general mien w r as truly 
grand ; full of a natural nobility, of which no one 
was more sensible than himself. Lord Monmouth 
was not in dishabille ; on the contrary, his cos- 
tume was exact, and even careful. Rising as we 
have mentioned when his grandson entered, and 
leaning with his left hand on his ivory cane, he 
made Coningsby such a bow as Louis Quatorze 
might have bestowed on the ambassador of the 
United Provinces. Then extending his right 
hand, which the boy tremblingly touched, Lord 
Monmouth said : 

“ How do you like Eton ? ” 

This contrast to the reception which he had 
imagined, hoped, feared, paralysed the reviving 
energies of young Coningsby. He felt stupefied ; 
he looked almost aghast. In the chaotic tumult 
of his mind, his memory suddenly seemed to re- 
ceive some miraculous inspiration. Mysterious 
phrases heard in his earliest boyhood, unnoticed 
then, long since forgotten, rose to his ear. Who 
was this grandfather, seen not before, seen now 
for the first time ? Where was the intervening 
link of blood between him and this superb and 


INTERVIEW WITH LORD MONMOUTH. 


11 


icy being ? The boy sank into the chair which 
had been placed for him, and leaning on the table 
burst into tears. 

Here was a business ! If there were one thing 
which would have made Lord Monmouth travel 
from London to Naples at four-and-twenty hours’ 
notice, it was to avoid a scene. He hated scenes. 
He hated feelings. He saw instantly the mistake 
he had made in sending for his grandchild. He 
was afraid that Coningsby was tender-hearted like 
his father. Another tender-hearted Coningsby ! 
Unfortunate family ! Degenerate race ! He de- 
cided in his mind that Coningsby must be pro- 
vided for in the Church, and looked at Mr. Rigby, 
whose principal business it always was to disem- 
barrass his patron from the disagreeable. 

Mr. Rigby instantly came forward and adroitly 
led the boy into the adjoining apartment, Lord 
Monmouth’s bed-chamber, closing the door of the 
dressing-room behind him. 

“My dear young friend,” said Mr. Rigby, 
“ w r liat is all this ? ” 

A sob the only answer. 

“ What can be the matter? ” said Mr. Rigby. 

“ I was thinking,” said Coningsby, “ of poor 
mamma ! ” 

“Hush!” said Mr. Rigby, “Lord Monmouth 
never likes to hear of people who are dead ; so 
you must take care never to mention your mother 
or your father.” 

In the mean time Lord Monmouth had decided 
on the fate of Coningsby. The Marquess thought 
he could read characters by a glance, and in gen- 
eral he was very successful, for his natural saga- 
city had been nurtured by great experience. His 
grandson was not to his taste ; amiable, no doubt, 
but a spooney. 

We are too apt to believe that the character 
of a boy is easily read. ’Tis a mystery the most 
profound. Mark what blunders parents constantly 
make as to the nature of their own offspring, bred, 
too, under their eyes, and displaying every hour 
their characteristics. How often in the nursery 
does the genius count as a dunce because he is 
pensive ; while a rattling urchin is invested with 
almost supernatural qualities because his animal 
spirits make him impudent and flippant ! The 
school-boy, above all others, is not the simple 
being the world imagines. In that young bosom 
are often stirring passions as strong as our owm, 
desires not less violent, a volition not less supreme. 
In that young bosom what burning love, what in- 
tense ambition, what avarice, what lust of power ; 
envy that fiends might emulate, hate that man 
might fear ! 


CHAPTER IV. 

“ Come,” said Mr. Rigby, when Coningsby was 
somewhat composed, “ come with me, aud we will 
see the house.” 

So they descended once more the private stair- 
case, and again entered the vestibule. 

“If you had seen these gardens when they 
were illuminated for a fete to George IV.,” said 
Rigby, as crossing the chamber he ushered his 
charge into the state apartments. The splendor 
and variety of the surrounding objects soon dis- 
tracted the attention of the boy, for the first time 


in the palace of his fathers. He traversed saloon 
after saloon hung with rare tapestry and the gor- 
geous products of foreign looms ; filled with choice 
pictures and creations of curious art ; cabinets that 
sovereigns might envy, and colossal vases of mal- 
achite presented by emperors. Coningsby alter- 
nately gazed up to ceilings glowing with color and 
with gold, and down upon carpets bright with the 
fancies and vivid with the tints of Aubusson and 
of Axminster. 

“ This grandfather of mine is a great prince,” 
thought Coningsby, as musing he stood before a 
portrait in which he recognized the features of 
the being from whom he had so recently and so 
strangely parted. There he stood, Philip Augus- 
tus, Marquess of Monmouth, in his robes of estate, 
with his new coronet on a table near him, a de- 
spatch lying at hand that indicated the special 
mission of high ceremony of which he had been 
the illustrious envoy, and the garter beneath his 
knee. 

“ You will haye plenty of opportunities to look 
at the pictures,” said Rigby, observing that the 
boy had now quite recovered himself. “ Some 
luncheon will do you no harm after our drive ; ” 
and he opened the door of another apartment. 

It was a pretty room adorned with a fine 
picture of the chase; at a round table in the 
centre sat two ladies interested in the meal to 
which Rigby had alluded. 

“Ah, Mr. Rigby ! ” said the eldest, yet young 
and beautiful, and speaking, though with fluency, 
in a foreign accent, “ come and tell me some 
news. Have you seen Milor?” and then she 
threw a scrutinizing glance from a dark flashing 
eye at his companion. 

“ Let me present to your Highness,” said Rig- 
by, with an air of some ceremony, “ Mr. Cou- 
ingsby.” 

“ My dear young friend,” said the lady, ex- 
tending her white hand with an air of joyous wel- 
come, “ this is Lucretia, my daughter. We love 
you already. Lord Monmouth will be so charmed 
to see you. What beautiful eyes he has, Mr. Rig- 
by ! Quite like Milor.” 

The young lady, who was really more youth- 
ful than Coningsby, but of a form and stature so 
developed, that she appeared almost a woman, 
bowed to the guest with some ceremony, and a 
faint, sullen smile, and then proceeded with her 
chicken-pie. 

“ You must be so hungry after your drive,” 
said the elder lady, placing Coningsby at her side, 
and herself filling his plate. 

This was true enough ; and while Mr. Rigby and 
the lady talked an infinite deal about things which 
he did not understand, and persons of whom he 
had never heard, our little hero made his first 
meal in his paternal house with no ordinary zest ; 
and, renovated by the pasty and a glass of sherry, 
felt altogether a different being from what he was, 
when he had undergone the terrible interview in 
which he began to reflect he had considerably ex- 
posed himself. His courage revived, his senses 
rallied, he replied to the interrogations of the lady 
with calmness, but with promptness and propriety. 
It was evident that he had made a favorable im- 
pression on her Highness, for ever and anon she 
put a truffle or some small delicacy in his plate, 
and insisted upon his taking some particular con- 


12 


CONINGSBY. 


fectionary, because it was a favorite of her own. 
When she rose, she said : 

“ In ten minutes the carriage will be at the 
door ; and if you like, my dear young friend, you 
shall be our beau.” 

“There is nothing I should like so much,” 
said Coningsby. 

“ Ah ! ” said the lady, with the sweetest smile, 
“ he is frank.” 

The ladies bowed and retired ; Mr. Rigby re- 
turned to the Marquess, and the groom of the 
chambers led Coningsby to his room. 

This lady, so courteous to Coningsby, was the 
Princess Colonna, a Roman dame, the second wife 
of Prince Paul Colonna. The Prince had first 
married when a boy, and into a family not inferior 
to his own. Of this union, in every respect un- 
happy, the Princess Lucretia was the sole off- 
spring. He was a man dissolute and devoted to 
play ; and cared for nothing much but his pleas- 
ures and billiards, in which latter he was esteemed 
unrivalled. According to some, in a freak of pas- 
sion, according to others, to cancel a gambling 
debt, he had united himself to his present wife, 
whose origin was obscure; but with whom he 
contrived to live on terms of apparent cordiality, 
for she was much admired, and made the society 
of her husband sought by those who contributed 
to his enjoyment. Among these especially figured 
the Marquess of Monmouth, between whom and 
Prince Colonna the world recognised as existing 
the most intimate and entire friendship, so that 
his Highness and his family were frequent guests 
under the roof of the English nobleman, and now 
accompanied him on a visit to England. 


CHAPTER Y. 

In the mean time, while ladies are luncheoning 
on chicken-pie, or coursing in whirling britskas, 
performing all the singular ceremonies of a Lon- 
don morning in the heart of the season ; making 
visits where nobody is seen, and making pur- 
chases which are not wanted; the world is in 
agitation and uproar. At present the world and 
the confusion are limited to St. James’s Street 
and Pall Mall ; but soon the boundaries and the 
tumult will be extended to the intended metro- 
politan boroughs ; to-morrow they will spread 
over the manufacturing districts. It is perfectly 
evident that, before eiglit-and-forty hours have 
passed, the country will be in a state of fearful 
crisis. And how can it be otherwise ? Is it not 
a truth that the subtle Chief Baron has been 
closeted one whole hour with the King ; that 
shortly after, with thoughtful brow and com- 
pressed lip, he was marked in his daring chariot 
entering the court-yard of Apsley House? Great 
was the panic at Brookes’s, wild the hopes of Carl- 
ton Terrace ; all the gentlemen who expected to 
have been made peers perceived that the country 
was going to be given over to a rapacious oli- 
garchy. 

In the mean time Tadpole and Taper, who 
had never quitted for an instant the mysterious 
head-quarters of the late Opposition, were full of 
hopes and fears, and asked many questions, 
which they chiefly answered themselves. 


“ I wonder what Lord Lyndhurst will say to 
the King,” said Taper. 

“ He has plenty of pluck,” said Tadpole. 

“ I almost wish now that Rigby had break- 
fasted with him this morning,” said Taper. 

“ If the King be firm, and the country sound,” 
said Tadpole, “ and Lord Monmouth keep his 
boroughs, I should not wonder to see Rigby 
made a privy councillor.” 

“ There is no precedent for an under-secretary 
being a privy councillor,” said Taper. 

“But we live in revolutionary times,” said 
Tadpole. 

“ Gentlemen,” said the groom of the cham- 
bers, in a loud voice, entering the room, “I am 
desired to state that the Duke of Wellington is 
with the King.” 

“There is a Providence!” exclaimed an 
agitated gentleman, the patent of whose intended 
peerage had not been signed the day that the 
Duke had quitted office in 1830. 

“ I always thought the King would be firm,” 
said Mr. Tadpole. 

“ I wonder who will have the India Board,” 
said Taper. 

At this moment three or four gentlemen en- 
tered the room in a state of great bustle and 
excitement; they were immediately surrounded. 

“Is it true? Quite true; not the slightest 
doubt. Saw him myself. Not at all hissed ; cer- 
tainly not hooted. Perhaps a little hissed. One 
fellow really cheered him. Saw him myself. 
Say what they like, there is reaction. But Con- 
stitution Hill, they say? Well, there was a sort 
of inclination to a row on Constitution Hill ; but 
the Duke quite firm ; pistols, and carriage-doors 
bolted.” 

Such may give a faint idea of the anxious in- 
quiries and the satisfactory replies that were 
occasioned by the entrance of this group. 

“Up, guards, and at them!” exclaimed Tad- 
pole, rubbing his hands in a fit of patriotic enthu- 
siasm. 

Later in the afternoon, about five o’clock, the 
high change of political gossip, when the room 
was crowded, and every one had his rumor, Mr. 
Rigby looked in again to throw his eye over the 
evening papers, and catch in various chit-chat 
the tone of public or party feeling on the 
“ crisis.” Then it was known that the Duke had 
returned from the King, having accepted the 
charge of forming an administration. An ad- 
ministration to do what ? Portentous question ! 
Were concessions to be made ? And if so, what ? 
Was it altogether impossible, and too late, “ stare 
super vias antiquas?” Questions altogether 
above your Tadpoles and your Tapers, whose 
idea of the necessities of the age was that they 
themselves should be in office. 

Lord Eskdale came up to Mr. Rigby. This 
peer was a noble Croesus, acquainted with all the 
gradations of life ; a voluptuary who could be a 
Spartan ; clear-sighted, unprejudiced, sagacious ; 
the best judge in the world of a horse or a man ; 
he was the universal referee ; a quarrel about a 
bet or a mistress was solved by him in a moment, 
and in a manner which satisfied both parties. 
He patronized and appreciated the fine arts, 
though a jockey ; respected literary men, though 
he only read French novels ; and, without any 


THE CRISIS. 


13 


<r 

affectation of tastes which he did not possess, was 
looked upon, by every singer and dancer in 
Europe, as their natural champion. The secret 
of his strong character and great influence was 
his self-composure, which an earthquake or a 
Reform Bill could not disturb, and which in him 
was the result of temperament and experience. 
He was an intimate acquaintance of Lord Mon- 
mouth, for they had many tastes in common ; 
were both men of considerable, and in some de- 
gree similar, abilities ; and were the two greatest 
proprietors of close boroughs in the country. 

“ Do you dine at Monmouth House to-day ? ” 
inquired Lord Eskdale of Mr. Rigby. 

“ Where I hope to meet your Lordship. The 
Whig papers are very subdued,” continued Mr. 
Rigby. 

“ Ah ! they have not the cue yet,” said Lord 
Eskdale. 

“ And what do you think of affairs ? ” inquired 
his companion. 

“ I think the hounds are too hot to hark off 
now,” said Lord Eskdale. 

“ There is one combination,” said Rigby, who 
seemed meditating an attack on Lord Eskdale’s 
button. 

“ Give it us at dinner,” said Lord Eskdale, 
who knew his man, and made an adroit move- 
ment forwards as if he were very anxious to see 
the “ Globe ” newspaper. 

In the course of two or three hours these 
gentlemen met again in the green drawing-room 
of Monmouth House. Mr. Rigby was sitting on 
the sofa by Lord Monmouth, detailing in whispers 
all his gossip of the morn : Lord Eskdale mur- 
muring quaint inquiries into the ear of the Prin- 
cess Lucretia. Madame Colonna made remarks 
alternately to two gentlemen, who paid her assid- 
uous court. One of these was Mr. Ormsby ; the 
school, the college, and the club crony of Lord 
Monmouth, who had been his shadow through 
life; travelled with him in early days, won money 
with him at play, had been his colleague in the 
House of Commons ; and was still one of his 
nominees. Mr. Ormsby was a millionnaire, 
which Lord Monmouth liked. He liked his com- 
panions to be very rich or very poor ; to be his 
equals, able to play with him at high stakes, or 
join him in a great speculation ; or to be his 
tools, and to amuse and serve him. There was 
nothing which he despised and disliked so much 
as a moderate fortune. 

The other gentleman was of a different class 
and character. Nature had intended Lucian Gay 
for a scholar and a wit ; necessity had made him 
a scribbler and a buffoon. He had distinguished 
himself at the University ; but he had no patri- 
mony, nor those powers of perseverance which 
success in any learned profession requires. He 
was good-looking, had great animal spirits, and a 
keen sense of enjoyment, and could not drudge. 
Moreover he had a fine voice, and sang his own 
songs with considerable taste; accomplishments 
w T hich made his fortune in society and completed 
his ruin. In due time he extricated himself from 
the bench and merged into journalism, by means 
of which he chanced to become acquainted with 
Mr. Rigby. That worthy individual was not slow 
in detecting the treasure he had lighted on — a 
wit, a ready and happy writer, a joyous and 


tractable being, with the education, ana still the 
feelings and manners, of a gentleman. Frequent 
were the Sunday dinners which found Gay a 
guest at Mr. Rigby’s villa ; numerous the airy 
pasquinades which he left behind, and which 
made the fortune of his patron. Flattered by 
the familiar acquaintance of a man of station, 
and sanguine that he had found the link which 
would sooner or later restore him to the polished 
world that he had forfeited, Gay labored in his 
vocation wflth enthusiasm and success. Willingly 
would Rigby have kept his treasure to himself ; 
and truly he hoarded it for a long time, but it 
oozed out. Rigby loved the reputation of pos- 
sessing the complete art of society. His dinners 
were celebrated at least for their guests. Great 
intellectual illustrations were found there blended 
with rank and high station. Rigby loved to pat- 
ronise; to play the minister unbending and seek- 
ing relief from the cares of council in the society 
of authors, artists, and men of science. He liked 
dukes to dine with him, and hear him scatter his 
audacious criticisms to Sir Thomas or Sir Hum- 
phry. They went away astounded by the powers 
of their host, who, had he not fortunately devoted 
those powers to their party, must apparently have 
rivalled Vandyke or discovered the Safety-lamp. 

Now, in these dinners, Lucian Gay, who had 
brilliant conversational powers, and who pos- 
sessed all the resources of boon companionship, 
would be an invaluable ally. He was therefore 
admitted, and, inspired both by the present enjoj T - 
ment, and the future to which it might lead, his 
exertions w r ere untiring, various, most successful. 
Rigby’s dinners became still more celebrated. 
It, however, necessarily followed that the guests 
who were charmed by Gay, wished Gay also to 
be their guest. Rigby was very jealous of this, 
but it was inevitable ; still, by constant manoeu- 
vre, by intimations of some exercise, some day or 
other, of substantial patronage in his behalf, by a 
thousand little arts by which he carved out work 
for Gay which often prevented him accepting 
invitations to great houses in the country, by ju- 
dicious loans of small sums on Lucian’s notes of 
hand and other analogous devices, Rigby con- 
trived to keep the wit in a fair state of bondage 
and dependence. 

One thing Rigby was resolved on : Gay should 
never get into Monmouth House. That was an 
empyrean too high for his wing to soar in. Rig- 
by kept that social monopoly distinctively to 
mark the relation that subsisted between them 
as patron and client. It was something to swag- 
ger about when they were together after their 
second bottle of claret. Rigby kept his resolu- 
tion for some years, which the frequent and pro- 
longed absence of the Marquess rendered not 
very difficult. But we are the creatures of cir- 
cumstances ; at least the Rigby race particularly. 
Lord Monmouth returned to England one year, 
and wanted to be amused. He wanted a jester ; 
a man about him who would make him — not 
laugh, for that was impossible, but smile more 
frequently, tell good stories, say good things, 
and sing now and then, especially French songs. 
Early in life Rigby would have attempted all this, 
though he had neither fun, voice, nor ear. But 
his hold on Lord Monmouth no longer depended 
on the mere exercise of agreeable qualities, he had 


14 


CONINGSBY. 


become indispensable to his Lordship, by more 
serious if not higher considerations. And what 
with auditing his accounts, guarding his bor- 
oughs, writing him, when absent, gossip by every 
post, and when in England deciding on every 
question and arranging every matter which might 
otherwise have ruffled the sublime repose of his 
patron’s existence, Rigby might be excused if he 
shrank a little from the minor part of table wit, 
particularly when we remember all his subter- 
ranean journalism, his acid squibs, and bis mali- 
cious paragraphs, and, what Tadpole called, his 
“ slashing articles.” 

These “slashing articles” were, indeed, 
things which, had they appeared as anonymous 
pamphlets, would have obtained the contemptu- 
ous reception which in an intellectual view no 
compositions more surely deserved; but whis- 
pered as the productions of one behind the 
scenes, and appearing in the pages of a party re- 
view, they were passed off as genuine coin, and 
took in great numbers of the lieges, especially 
in the country. They were written in a style 
apparently modelled on the briefs of those sharp 
attorneys who weary advocates with their clever 
common-place ; teasing with obvious comment, 
and torturing with inevitable inference. The 
affectation of order in the statement of facts had 
all the lucid method of an adroit pettifogger. 
They dealt much in extracts from newspapers, 
quotations from the “ Annual Register,” parallel 
passages in forgotten speeches, arranged with a 
formidable array of dates rarely accurate. When 
the writer was of opinion he had made a point, 
you may be sure the hit was in italics, that last 
resource of the Forcible Feebles. He handled 
a particular in chronology as if he were proving 
an alibi at the Criminal Court. The censure was 
coarse without being strong, and vindictive when 
it would have been sarcastic. Now and then 
there was a passage which aimed at a higher 
flight, and nothing can be conceived more unlike 
genuine feeling, or more offensive to pure taste. 
And yet, perhaps, the most ludicrous character- 
istic of these factious gallimaufreys was an occa- 
sional assumption of the high moral and admoni- 
tory tone, which, when w r e recurred to the general 
spirit of the discourse, and were apt to recall the 
character of its writer, irresistibly reminded one 
of Mrs. Cole and her prayer-book. 

To return to Lucian Gay. It was a rule with 
Rigby that no one, if possible, should do any 
thing for Lord Monmouth but himself ; and, as a 
jester must be found, he was determined that his 
Lordship should have the best in the market, 
and that he should have the credit of furnishing 
the article. As a reward, therefore, for many 
past services, and a fresh claim to his future ex- 
ertions, Rigby one day broke to Gay that the 
hour had at length arrived when the highest ob- 
ject of reasonable ambition on his part, and the 
fulfilment of one of Rigby’s long-cherished and 
dearest hopes, were alike to be realised. Gay 
was to be presented to Lord Monmouth and dine 
at Monmouth House. 

The acquaintance was a successful one; very 
agreeable to both parties. Gay became an habit- 
ual guest of Lord Monmouth when his patron 
was in England; and in his absence received fre- 
quent and substantial marks of his kind recollec- 


tion, for Lord Monmouth was generous to those 
who amused him. 

In the mean time the hour of dinner is at 
hand. Coningsby, who had lost the key of his 
carpet-bag, which he finally cut open with a pen- 
knife that he found on his writing-table, and the 
blade of which he broke in the operation, only 
reached the drawing-room as the figure of his 
grandfather, leaning on his ivory cane, and fol- 
lowing his guests, was just visible in the distance. 
He was soon overtaken. Perceiving Coningsby, 
Lord Monmouth made him a bow, not so formal 
a one as in the morning, but still a bow, and said, 
“ I hope you liked your drive.” 


CHAPTER YI. 

A little dinner, not more than the Muses, 
with all the guests clever, and some pretty, offers 
human life and human nature under very favor- 
able circumstances. In the present instance, too, 
every one was anxious to please, for the host was 
entirely well-bred, never selfish in little things, 
and always contributed his quota to the general 
fund of polished sociability. 

Although there was really only one thought 
in every male mind present, still, regard for the 
ladies, and some little apprehension of the ser- 
vants, banished politics from discourse during the 
greater part of the dinner, with the occasional 
exception of some rapid and flying allusion which 
the initiated understood, but which remained a 
mystery to the rest. Nevertheless, an old story 
now and then well told by Mr. Ormsby, a new 
joke now and then well introduced by Mr. Gay, 
some dashing assertion by Mr. Rigby, which, 
though wrong, was startling; this agreeable 
blending of anecdote, jest, and paradox, kept 
every thing fluent, and produced that degree of 
mild excitation which is desirable. Lord Mon- 
mouth sometimes summed up with an epigram- 
matic sentence, and turned the conversation by a 
question, in case it dwelt too much on the same 
topic. Lord Eskdale addressed himself princi- 
pally to the ladies ; inquired after their morning 
drive and doings, spoke of new fashions, and 
quoted a letter from Paris. Madame Colonna 
was not witty, but she had that sweet Roman 
frankness which is so charming. The presence 
of a beautiful woman, natural and good-tempered, 
even if she be not a L’Espinasse or a De Stael, is 
animating. 

Nevertheless, owing probably to the absorb- 
ing powers of the forbidden subject, there were 
moments when it seemed that a pause was im- 
pending, and Mr. Ormsby, an old hand, seized 
one of these critical instants to address a good- 
natured question to Coningsby, whose acquaint- 
ance he had already cultivated by taking wine 
with him. 

“ And how do you like Eton ? ” asked Mr. 
Ormsby. 

It was the identical question which had been 
presented to Coningsby in the memorable inter- 
view of the morning, and which had received no 
reply; or rather had produced on his part a sen- 
timental ebullition that had absolutely destined 
or doomed him to the Church. 


A DINNER AT MONMOUTH HOUSE. 


15 


“ I should like to see the fellow who did not 
like Eton,” said Coningsby briskly, determined 
this time to be very brave. 

“ ’Gad I must go down and see the old place,” 
said Mr. Ormsby, touched by a pensive reminis- 
cence. “ One can get a good bed and bottle of 
port at the Christopher, still ? ” 

“ You had better come and try, sir,” said Con- 
ingsby. “ If you will come some day and dine 
with me at the Christopher, I will give you such 
a bottle of champagne as you never tasted yet.” 

The Marquess looked at him, but said nothing. 

“ Ah ! I liked a dinner at the Christopher,” 
said Mr. Ormsby ; “ after mutton, mutton, mut- 
ton, every day, it was not a bad thing.” 

“ We had venison for dinner every week last 
season,” said Coningsby ; “ Buckhurst had it 
sent up from his park. But I don’t care for din- 
ner. Breakfast is my lounge.” 

“ Ah ! those little rolls and pats of butter ! ” 
said Mr. Ormsby. “ Short commons, though. 
What do you think we did in my time? — We 
used to send over the way to get a mutton- 
chop.” 

“ I wish you could see Buckhurst and me at 
breakfast,” said Coningsby, “ with a pound of 
Castle’s sausages ! ” 

“ What Buckhurst is that, Harry ? ” inquired 
Lord Monmouth, in a tone of some interest, and 
for the first time calling him by his Christian 
name. 

“Sir Charles Buckhurst, sir, a Berkshire man ; 
Shirley Park is his place.” 

“ Why, that must be Charley’s son, Eskdale,” 
said Lord Monmouth ; “ I had no idea he could 
be so young.” 

“ He married late, you know, and had nothing 
but daughters for a long time.” 

“ Well, I hope there will be no Reform Bill 
for Eton,” said Lord Monmouth musingly. 

The servants had now retired. 

“ I think, Lord Monmouth,” said Mr. Rigby, 
“ we must ask permission to drink one toast to- 
day.” 

“Nay, I will myself give it,” he replied. 
“ Madame Colonna, you will, I am sure, join us 
when we drink — the Duke ! ” 

“ Ah ! what a man ! ” exclaimed the Princess. 
“ What a pity it is you have a House of Com- 
mons here ! England would be the greatest 
country in the world, if it were not for that 
House of Commons. It makes so much confu- 
sion ! ” 

“ Don’t abuse our property,” said Lord Esk- 
dale, “ Lord Monmouth and i have still twenty 
votes of that same body between us.” 

“And there is a combination,” said Rigby, 
“ by which you may still keep them.” 

“ Ah ! now for Rigby’s combination ! ” said 
Lord Eskdale. 

“ The only thing that can save this country,” 
said Rigby, “ is a coalition on a sliding scale.” 

“You had better buy up the Birmingham 
Union and the other bodies,” said Lord Mon- 
mouth ; “ I believe it might all be done for two 
or three hundred thousand pounds; and the 
newspapers too. Pitt would have settled this 
business long ago.” 

“Well, at any rate, we are in,” said Rigby, 
“ and we must do something.” 


“ I should like to see Grey’s list of new peers,” 
said Lord Eskdale. “ They say there are several 
members of our club in it.” 

“ And the claims to the honor are so opposite,” 
said Lucian Gay ; “ one, on account of his large 
estate ; another, because he has none ; one, be- 
cause he has a well-grown family to perpetuate 
the title ; another, because he has no heir, and no 
power of ever obtaining one.” 

“ I wonder how he will form his cabinet,” 
said Lord Monmouth ; “ the old story won’t 
do.” 

“ I hear that Baring is to be one of the new 
cards ; they say it will please in the city,” said 
Lord Eskdale. “ I suppose they will pick out of 
hedge and ditch every thing that has ever had the 
semblance of liberalism.” 

“ Affairs in my time were never so compli- 
cated,” said Mr. Ormsby. 

“ Nay, it appears to me to lie in a nutshell,” 
said Lucian Gay ; “ one party wishes to keep 
their old boroughs, and the other to get their 
new peers.” 


CHAPTER VII. 

The future historian of the country will be 
perplexed to ascertain what was the distinct ob- 
ject which the Duke of Wellington proposed to 
himself in the political manoeuvres of May, 1832. 
It was known that the passing of the Reform Bill 
was a condition absolute with the King ; it was 
unquestionable, that the first general election un- 
der the new law must ignominiously expel the 
Anti-Reform Ministry from power ; who would 
then resume their seats on the Opposition bench- 
es in both Houses with the loss not only of their 
boroughs, but of that reputation for political con- 
sistency, which might have been some compen- 
sation for the parliamentary influence of which 
they had been deprived. It is difficult to recog- 
nise, in this premature effort of the Anti-Reform 
leader to thrust himself again into the conduct of 
public affairs, any indications of the prescient 
judgment which might have been expected from 
such a quarter. It savored rather of restlessness 
than of energy ; and, while it proved in its prog- 
ress not only an ignorance on his part of the pub- 
lic mind, but of the feelings of his own party, it 
terminated under circumstances which were hu- 
miliating to the Crown, and painfully significant 
of the future position of the House of Lords in 
the new constitutional scheme. 

The Duke of Wellington has ever been the 
votary of circumstances. He cares little for 
causes. He watches events rather than seeks to 
produce them. It is a characteristic of the mili- 
tary mind. Rapid combinations, the result of a 
quick, vigilant, and comprehensive glance, are 
generally triumphant in the field ; but in civil af- 
fairs, where results are not immediate — in diplo- 
macy and in the management of deliberative as- 
semblies, where there is much intervening time 
and many counteracting causes — this velocity of 
decision, this fitful and precipitate action, are 
often productive of considerable embarrassment, 
and sometimes of terrible discomfiture. It is re- 
markable that men celebrated for military pru- 
dence are often found to be headstrong states- 


16 


CONINGSBY. 


men. In civil life a great general is frequently 
and strangely the creature of impulse ; influenced 
in his political movements by the last snatch of 
information ; and often the creature of the last 
aide-de-camp who has his ear. 

We sh ill endeavor to trace in another chap- 
ter the reasons which, on this as on previous and 
subsequent occasions, induced Sir Robert Peel to 
stand aloof, if possible, from official life, and 
made him reluctant to re-enter the service of his 
Sovereign. In the present instance, even tempo- 
rary success could only have been secured by the 
utmost decision, promptness, and energy. These 
were all wanting ; some were afraid to follow the 
bold example of their leader ; many were disin- 
clined. In eight-and-forty hours it was known 
there was a “ hitch.” 

The Reform party, who had been rather stu- 
pefied than appalled by the accepted mission of 
the Duke of Wellington, collected their scattered 
senses, and rallied their forces. The agitators 
harangued, the mob3 hooted. The City of Lon- 
don, as if the King had again tried to seize the 
five members, appointed a permanent committee 
of the Common Council to watch the fortunes of 
the “ great national measure,” and to report 
daily. Brookes’s, which was the only place that 
at first was really frightened and talked of com- 
promise, grew valiant again ; while young Whig 
heroes jumped upon club-room tables, and deliv- 
ered fiery invectives. Emboldened by these dem- 
onstrations, the House of Commons met in great 
force, and passed a vote, which struck, without 
disguise, at all rival powers in the State ; virtu- 
ally announced its supremacy ; revealed the for- 
lorn position of the House of Lords under the 
new arrangement ; and seemed to lay for ever the 
fluttering phantom of regal prerogative. 

It was on the 9th of May that Lord Lyndhurst 
was with the King, and on the 15th all was over. 
Nothing in parliamentary history so humiliating 
as the funeral oration delivered that day by the 
Duke of Wellington over the old constitution, 
that, modelled on the Venetian, had governed 
England since the accession of the House of 
Hanover. He described his Sovereign, when his 
Grace first repaired to his Majesty, as in a state 
of the greatest “ difficulty and distress,” appeal- 
ing to his never-failing loyalty to extricate him 
from his trouble and vexation. The Duke of 
Wellington, representing the House of Lords, 
sympathises with the King, and pledges his ut- 
most efforts for his Majesty’s relief. But, after 
five days’ exertion, this man of indomitable will 
and invincible fortunes resigns the task in dis- 
comfiture and despair, and alleges as the only 
and sufficient reason of his utter and hopeless 
defeat, that the House of Commons had come to 
a vote which ran counter to the contemplated 
exercise of the prerogative. 

From that moment power passed from the 
House of Lords to another assembly. But, if the 
peers have ceased to be magnificoes, may it not 
also happen that the Sovereign may cease to be a 
Doge? It is not impossible that the political 
movements of our time, which seem on the sur- 
face to have a tendency to democracy, may have 
ha reality a monarchical bias. 

In less than a fortnight’s time the House of 
Lords, like James II., having abdicated their 


functions by absence, the Reform Bill passed ; 
the ardent monarch, who a few months before 
had expressed his readiness to go down to Par- 
liament, in a hackney-coach if necessary, to assist 
its progress, now declining personally to give his 
assent to its provisions. 

In the protracted discussions to which this 
celebrated measure gave rise, nothing is more re- 
markable than the perplexities into which the 
speakers of both sides are thrown, when they 
touch upon the nature of the representative prin- 
ciple. On one hand, it was maintained, that un- 
der the old system the people were virtually rep- 
resented ; while, on the other, it was triumphant- 
ly urged that, if the principle be conceded, the 
people should not be virtually, but actually rep- 
resented. But who are the people ? And where 
are you to draw a line ? And why should there 
be any ? It was urged that a contribution to the 
taxes was the constitutional qualification for the 
suffrage. But we have established a system of 
taxation in this country of so remarkable a na- 
ture, that the beggar who chews his quid as be 
sweeps a crossing is contributing to the imposts ! 
Is he to have a vote ? He is one of the people 
and he yields his quota to the public burthens. 

Amid these conflicting statements, and these 
confounding conclusions, it is singular that no 
member of either House should have recurred to 
the original character of these popular assem- 
blies, which have always prevailed among the 
northern nations. We still maintain in the an- 
tique phraseology of our statutes the term which 
might have beneficially guided a modern Reform- 
er in his reconstructive labors. 

When the crowned Northman consulted on 
the welfare of his kingdom, he assembled the 
Estates of his realm. Now, an estate is a class of 
the nation invested with political rights. There 
appeared the estate of the clergy, of the barons, 
of other classes. In the Scandinavian kingdoms 
to this day, the estate of the peasant sends its 
representatives to the Diet. In England, under 
the Normans, the Church and the Baronage were 
convoked, together with the estate of the Com- 
munity, a term which then probably described 
the inferior holders of land, whose tenure was 
not immediate of the Crown. This Third Estate 
was so numerous, that convenience suggested its 
appearance by representation ; while the others, 
more limited, appeared, and still appear, person- 
ally. The Third Estate was reconstructed as cir- 
cumstances developed themselves. It was a Re- 
form of Parliament when the towns were sum- 
moned. 

In treating the House of the Third Estate as 
the House of the People, and not as the House 
of a privileged class, the Ministry and Parliament 
of 1831 virtually conceded the principle of Uni- 
versal Suffrage. In this point of view the ten- 
pound franchise was an arbitrary, irrational, and 
impolitic qualification. It had, indeed, the merit 
of simplicity, and so had the constitutions of Abbe 
Sieyes. But its immediate and inevitable result 
was Chartism. 

But, if the Ministry and Parliament of 1831 
had announced that the time had arrived when 
the Third Estate should be enlarged and recon- 
structed, they would have occupied an intelligible 
position ; and, if, instead of simplicity of elements 


* 


MANCHESTER AND BIRMINGHAM. 


17 


in its reconstruction, they had sought, on the 
contrary, various and varying materials which 
would have neutralised the painful predominance 
of any particular interest in the new scheme, and 
prevented those banded jealousies which have 
been its consequences, the nation Mould have 
found itself in a secure condition. Another class 
not less numerous than the existing one, and in- 
vested M'ith privileges not less important, would 
have been added to the public estates of the 
realm ; and the bewildering phrase “ the People ” 
would have remained, what it really is, a term of 
natural philosophy, and not of political science. 

During this eventful week of May, 1832, vdien 
an important revolution was effected in the most 
considerable of modern kingdoms, in a manner 
so tranquil, that the victims themselves were 
scarcely conscious at the time of the catastrophe, 
Coningsby passed his hours in unaccustomed 
pleasures, and in novel excitement. Although he 
heard daily from the lips of Mr. Rigby and his 
friends that England was forever lost, the assem- 
bled guests still contrived to do justice to his 
grandfather’s excellent dinners ; nor did the im- 
pending ruin that awaited them prevent the 
Princess Colonna from going to the Opera, 
whither she very good-naturedly took Coningsby. 
Madame Colonna, indeed, gave such gratifying 
accounts of her dear young friend, that Conings- 
by became daily a greater favorite M T ith Lord 
Monmouth, who cherished the idea that his grand- 
son had inherited not merely the color of his 
eyes, but something of his shrewd and fearless 
spirit. 

With Lucretia, Coningsby did not much ad- 
vance. She remained silent and sullen. She was 
not beautiful ; pallid, with a lowering brow, and 
an eye that avoided meeting another’s. Madame 
Colonna, though good-natured, felt for her some- 
thing of the affection for which step-mothers are 
celebrated. Lucretia, indeed, did not encourage 
her kindness, M'hich irritated her step-mother, 
who seemed seldom to address her, but to rate 
and chide ; Lucretia never replied, but looked 
dogged. Her father, the Prince, did not com- 
pensate for this treatment. The memory of her 
mother, whom he had greatly disliked, did not 
soften his heart. He Mas a man still young ; 
slender, not tall ; very handsome, but worn ; a 
haggard Antinous ; his beautiful hair daily thin- 
ning ; his dress rich and effeminate ; many 
jewels, much lace. He seldom spoke, but was 
polished, though moody. 

At the end of the week, Coningsby returned 
to Eton. On the eve of his departure, Lord Mon- 
mouth desired his grandson to meet him in his 
apartments on the morrow, before quitting his 
roof. This farewell visit was as kind and gracious 
as the first one had been repulsive. Lord Mon- 
mouth gave Coningsby his blessing and ten 
pounds ; desired that he would order a dress, 
anything he liked, for the approaching Montem, 
which Lord Monmouth meant to attend, and in- 
formed his grandson that he should order that in 
future a proper supply of game and venison should 
be forwarded to Eton for the use of himself and 
his friends. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

After eight o’clock school, the day following 
the return of Coningsby, according to custom, he 
repaired to Buckhurst’s room, M’here Henry Syd- 
ney, Lord Vere, and our hero, held with him their 
breakfast mess. They were all in the fifth form, 
and habitual companions, on the river or on the 
Fives’ Wall, at cricket, or at foot-ball. The re- 
turn of Coningsby, their leader alike in sport and 
study, inspired them to-day with unusual spirits, 
which, to say the truth, Mere never particularly 
depressed. Where he had been, what he had 
seen, what he had done, what sort of fellow his 
grandfather was, whether the visit had been a 
success — here M r ere materials for almost endless 
inquiry. And, indeed, to do them justice, the 
last question was not the least exciting to them ; 
for the deep and cordial interest which all felt in 
Coningsby’s welfare far outweighed the curiosity 
which, under ordinary circumstances, they would 
have experienced on the return of one of their 
companions, from an unusual visit to London. 
The report of their friend imparted to them un- 
bounded satisfaction, when they learned that his 
relative was a splendid fellow ; that he had been 
loaded with kindness and favors ; that Monmouth 
House, the wonders of which he rapidly sketched, 
was hereafter to be bis home ; that Lord Mon- 
mouth was coming down to Montem ; that Con- 
ingsby was to order any dress he liked, build a 
new boat if he chose ; and, finally, had been 
pouched in a manner worthy of a marquess and 
a grandfather. 

“ By the bye,” said Buckhurst, when the hub- 
bub had a little subsided, “ I am afraid you will 
not half like it, Coningsby ; but, old fellow, I had 
no idea you would be back this morning. I have 
asked Millbank to breakfast here.” 

A cloud stole over the clear brow of Coningsby. 

“ It is my fault,” said the amiable Henry 
Sydney ; “ but I really M r anted to be civil to Mill- 
bank, and, as you were not here, I put Buckhurst 
up to ask him.” 

“ Well,” said Coningsby, as if sullenly re- 
signed, “never mind; but why you should ask 
an infernal manufacturer ! ” 

“ Why the Duke always wished me to pay 
him some attention,” said Lord Henry, mildly. 
“ His family were so civil to us M’hen M'e were at 
Manchester.” 

“ Manchester, indeed ! ” said Coningsby ; “ if 
you knew what I do about Manchester ! A pret- 
ty state we have been in in London this M r eek 
past with your Manchesters and Birminghams ! ” 

“ Come — come, Coningsby,” said Lord Vere, 
the son of a Whig minister ; “lam all for Man- 
chester and Birmingham.” 

“ It is all up with the country, I can tell you,” 
said Coningsby, with the air of one M r ho was in 
the secret. 

“My father says it will all go right now,” re- 
joined Lord Vere. “ I had a letter from my sis- 
ter yesterday.” 

“ They say M r e shall all lose our estates, 
though,” said Buckhurst; “I know I shall not 
give up mine without a fight. Shirley was be- 
sieged, you know, in the civil wars ; and the 
rebels got infernally licked.” 


2 


18 


CONINGSBY. 


“ I think that all the people about Beauma- 
noir would stand by the Duke,” said Lord Henry, 
pensively. 

“Well — you may depend upon it you will 
have it very soon,” said Coningsby. “ 1 know it 
from the best authority.” 

“ It depends on whether my father remains 
in,” said Lord Vere. “ He is the only man who 
can govern the country now. All say that.” 

At this moment Millbank entered. He was a 
good-looking boy, somewhat shy, and yet with a 
sincere expression in his countenance. He was 
evidently not extremely intimate with those who 
were now his companions. Buckhurst, and Henry 
Sydney, and Vere, welcomed him cordially. He 
looked at Coningsby with some constraint, and 
then said : 

“You have been in London, Coningsby?” 

“ Yes, I have been there during all the row.” 

“ You must have had a rare lark.” 

“ Yes, if having your windows broken by a 
mob be a rare lark. They could not break my 
grandfather’s though. Monmouth House is in a 
court-yard. All noblemen’s houses should be in 
court-yards.” 

“ I was glad to see it all ended very well,” said 
Millbank. 

“ It has not begun yet,” said Coningsby. 

“ What ? ” said Millbank. 

“ Why — the revolution.” 

“ The Reform Bill will prevent a revolution, 
my father says,” said Millbank. 

“ By Jove ! here’s the goose,” said Buckhurst. 

At this moment there entered the room a 
little boy, the scion of a noble house, bfaring a 
roasted goose, which he had carried from the 
kitchen of the opposite inn, the Christopher. 
The lower boy or fag, depositing his burden, 
asked his master whether he had further need of 
him ; and Buckhurst, after looking round the 
table, and ascertaining that he had not, gave him 
permission to retire; but he had scarcely disap- 
peared, when his master singing out, “ Lower 
boy, St. John ! ” he immediately re-entered, and 
demanded his master’s pleasure, which was, that 
he should pour some water in the teapot. This 
being accomplished, St. John really made his es- 
cape, and retired to a pupil-room, where the 
bullying of a tutor, because he had no deriva- 
tions, exceeded in all probability the bullying of 
his master, had he contrived in his passage from 
the Christopher to have upset the goose or 
dropped the sausages. 

In their merry meal, the Reform Bill was for- 
gotten. Their thoughts were soon concentred in 
their little world, though it must be owned that 
visions of palaces and beautiful ladies did occa- 
sionally flit over the brain of one of the company. 
But for him especially there was much of interest 
and novelty. So much had happened in his ab- 
sence ! There was a week’s arrears for him of 
Eton annals. They were recounted in so fresh a 
spirit, and in such vivid colors, that Coningsby 
lost nothing by his London visit. All the bold 
feats that had been done, and all the bright 
things that had been said ; all the triamphs, and 
all the failures, and all the scrapes ; how popular 
one master had made himself, and how ridiculous 
another ; all was detailed with a liveliness, a can- 
dor, and a picturesque ingenuousness which 


would have made the fortune of a Herodotus or a 
Froissart. 

“ I tell you what,” said Buckhurst, “ I move 
that after twelve we five go up to Maidenhead.” 

“ Agreed — agreed ! ” 


CHAPTER IX. 

Millbank was the son of one of the wealthiest 
manufacturers in Lancashire. His father, whose 
opinions were of a very democratic bent, sent his 
son to Eton, though he disapproved of the system 
of education pursued there, to show that he had 
as much right to do so as any duke in the land. 
He had, however, brought up his only boy with a 
due prejudice against every sentiment or institu- 
tion of an aristocratic character, and had espe- 
cially impressed upon him, in his school career, to 
avoid the slightest semblance of courting the af- 
fections or society of any member of the falsely- 
held superior class. 

The character of the son, as much as the in- 
fluence of the father, tended to the fulfilment of 
these injunctions. Oswald Millbank was of a 
proud and independent nature : reserved, a little 
stern. The early and constantly-reiterated dog- 
ma of his lather, that he belonged to a class de- 
barred from its just position in the social system, 
had aggravated the grave and somewhat discon- 
tented humor of his blood. His talents were 
considerable, though invested with no dazzling 
quality. He had not that quick and brilliant ap- 
prehension which, combined with a memory of 
rare retentiveness, had already advanced Conings- 
by far beyond his age, and made him already 
looked to as the future hero of the school. But 
Millbank possessed one of those strong, industri- 
ous volitions, whose perseverance amounts al- 
most to genius, and nearly attains its results. 
Though Coningsby was by a year his junior, they 
were rivals. This circumstance had no tendency 
to remove the prejudice which Coningsby enter- 
tained against him, but its bias on the part of 
Millbank had a contrary effect. 

The influence of the individual is nowhere so 
sensible as at school. There the personal quali- 
ties strike without any intervening and counter- 
acting causes. A gracious presence, noble senti- 
ments, or a happy talent, make their way there 
at once, without preliminary inquiries as to what 
set they are in, or what family they are of, how 
much they have a year, or where they live. Now, 
on no spirit had the influence of Coningsby, al- 
ready the favorite, and soon probably to become 
the idol, of the school, fallen more effectually 
than on that of Millbank, though it was an influ- 
ence that no one could suspect except its votary 
or it victim. 

At school, friendship is a passion. It en- 
trances the being ; it tears the soul. All loves 
of after-life can never bring its rapture, or its 
wretchedness ; no bliss so absorbing, no pangs of 
jealousy or despair so crushing and so keen ! 
What tenderness and what devotion; what illi- 
mitable confidence ; infinite revelations of inmost 
thoughts ; what ecstatic present and romantic fu- 
ture ; what bitter estrangements and what melt- 
ing reconciliations ; what scenes of wild recrimi- 


A HARD LOT. 


19 


nation, agitating explanations, passionate corre- 
spondence ; what insane sensitiveness, and what 
frantic sensibility ; what earthquakes of the heart 
and whirlwinds of the soul are confined in that 
simple phrase — a school-boy’s friendship ! ’Tis 
some indefinite recollection of these mystic pas- 
sages of their young emotion that makes grey- 
haired men mourn over the memory of their 
schoolboy days. It is a spell that can soften the 
acerbity of political welfare, and with its witchery 
can call forth a sigh even amid the callous bustle 
of fashionable saloons. 

The secret of Millbank’s life was a passionate 
admiration and affection for Coningsby. Pride, 
his natural reserve, and his father’s injunctions, 
had, however, hitherto successfully combined to 
restrain the slightest demonstration of these senti- 
ments. Indeed Coningsby and himself were never 
companions, except in school, or in some public 
game. The demeanor of Coningsby gave no 
encouragement to intimacy to one who, under 
any circumstances, would have required consider- 
able invitation to open himself. So Millbank fed 
in silence on a cherished idea. It was his happi- 
ness to be in the same form, to join in the same 
sport, with Coningsby ; occasionally to be thrown 
in unusual contact with him, to exchange slight 
and not unkind words. In their division they 
were rivals ; Millbank sometimes triumphed, but 
to be vanquished by Coningsby was for him not 
without a degree of wild satisfaction. Not a ges- 
ture, not a phrase from Coningsby, that he did 
not watch and ponder over and treasure up. 
Coningsby was his model, alike in studies, in 
manners, or in pastimes ; the aptest scholar, the 
gayest wit, the most graceful associate, the most 
accomplished playmate : his standard of the ex- 
cellent. Yet Millbank was the very last boy in 
the school who would have had credit given him 
by his companions for profound and ardent feel- 
ing. He was not indeed unpopular. The favor- 
ite of the school like Coningsby, he could, under 
no circumstances, ever have become ; nor was he 
qualified to obtain that general graciousness 
among the multitude, which the sweet disposition 
of Henry Sydney, or the gay profusion of Buck- 
hurst, acquired without an effort. Millbank was 
not blessed with the charm of manner. He 
seemed close and cold ; but he was courageous, 
just, and inflexible; never bullied, and to his 
utmost would prevent tyranny. The little boys 
looked up to him as a stern protector; and his 
word, too, throughout the school was a proverb : 
and truth ranks a great quality among boys. In 
a word, Millbank was respected by those among 
whom he lived ; and schoolboys scan character 
more nicely than men suppose. 

A brother of Henry Sydney, quartered in Lan- 
cashire, had been wounded recently in a riot, and 
had received great kindness from the Millbank 
family, in whose immediate neighborhood the dis- 
turbance had occurred. The kind Duke had im- 
pressed on Henry Sydney to acknowledge with 
cordiality, to the younger Millbank at Eton, the 
sense which his family entertained of these bene- 
fits ; but, though Henry lost neither time nor 
opportunity in obeying an injunction which was 
grateful to, his own heart, he failed in cherishing, 
or indeed creating, any intimacy with the object 
of his solicitude. A companionship with one 


who was Coningsby’s relative and most familiar 
friend would at the first glance have appeared, 
independently of all other considerations, a most 
desirable result for Millbank to accomplish. But, 
perhaps, this very circumstance afforded addi- 
tional reasons for the absence of all encourage- 
ment with which he received the overtures of 
Lord Henry. Millbank suspected that Coningsby 
was not affected in his favor, and his pride re- 
coiled from gaining, by any indirect means, an 
intimacy which to have obtained in a plain and 
express manner would have deeply gratified him. 
However, the urgent invitation of Buckhurst and 
Henry Sydney, and the fear that a persistence in 
refusal might be misinterpreted into churlishness, 
had at length brought Millbank to their break- 
fast-mess, though, when he accepted their invita- 
tion, he did not apprehend that Coningsby would 
have been present. 

It was about an hour before sunset, the day 
of this very breakfast, and a good number of 
boys, in lounging groups, were collected in the 
Long Walk. The sports and matches of the day 
were over. Criticism had succeeded to action in 
sculling and in cricket. They talked over the 
exploits of the morning; canvassed the merits 
of the competitors, marked the fellow whose 
play or whose stroke was improving ; glanced at 
another, whose promise had not been fulfilled ; 
discussed the pretensions, and adjudged the palm. 
Thus public opinion is formed. Some, too, might 
be seen with their books and exercises, intent on 
the inevitable and impending tasks. Among 
these, some unhappy wight in the remove, wan- 
dering about with his hat, after parochial fash- 
ion, seeking relief in the shape of a verse. A 
hard lot this, to know that you must be delivered 
of fourteen verses at least in the twenty-four 
hours, and to be conscious that you are pregnant 
of none. The lesser boys, urchins of tender 
years, clustered like flies round the baskets of 
certain vendors of sugary delicacies that rested 
on the Long-Walk wall. The pallid countenance, 
the lack-lustre eye, the hoarse voice clogged with 
accumulated phlegm, indicated too surely the ir- 
reclaimable and hopeless votary of lollypop — the 
opium-eater of scliool-boys. 

“ It is settled, the match to-morrow shall be 
between Aquatics and Drybobs,” said a senior 
boy ; who was arranging a future match at cricket. 

“But what’s to be done about Fielding 
major ? ” inquired another. “ He has not paid 
his boating money, and I say he has no right to 
play among the Aquatics before he has paid his 
money.” 

“ Oh ! but we must have Fielding major, lie’s 
such a devil of a swipe.” 

“ I declare he shall not play among the Aquat- 
ics if he does not pay his boating money. It is 
an infernal shame.” 

“Let us ask Buckhurst. Where is Buck- 
hurst ? ” 

“Have you got any toffy ?” inquired a dull- 
looking little boy, in a hoarse voice, of one of the 
vendors of scholastic confectionary. 

“ Tom Trot, sir.’” 

“ No ; I want toffy.” 

“Very nice Tom Trot, sir.” 

“No, I want toffy ; I have been eating Tom 
Trot all day.” 


20 


CONINGSBY. 


“Where is Buckhurst? We must settle 
about the Aquaties.” 

“Well, I for one will not play if Fielding 
major plays among the Aquatics. That’s set- 
tled.” 

“ Oh ! nonsense ; he will pay his money if 
you ask him.” 

“ I shall not ask him again. The captain 
duns us every day. It’s an infernal shame.” 

“ I say, Burnham, where can one get some 
toffy ? This fellow never has any.” 

“ I’ll tell you, at Barnes’s on the bridge. The 
best toffy in the world.” 

“ I’ll go at once. I must have some toffy.” 

“Just help me with this verse, Collins,” said 
one boy to another, in an imploring tone, “ that’s 
a good fellow.” 

“ Well give it us ; first syllable in fabri is 
short; three false quantities in the two first 
lines ! You’re a pretty one. There, I have done 
it for you. 

“ That’s a good fellow.” 

“ Any fellow seen Buckhurst? ” 

“ Gone up the river with Coningsby and Henry 
Sydney.” 

“ But he must be back by this time. I want 
him to make the list for the match to-morrow. 
Where the deuce can Buckhurst be ? ” 

And now, as rumors rise in society we know 
not how, so there was suddenly a flying report in 
this multitude — the origin of which no one in his 
alarm stopped to ascertain, that a boy was 
drowned. 

Every heart was agitated. 

What boy ? When — where — how ? Who 
was absent? Who had been on the river to-day ? 
Buckhurst. The report ran that Buckhurst was 
drowned. Great were the trouble and consterna- 
tion. Buckhurst was ever much liked ; and now 
no one remembered any thing but his good quali- 
ties. 

“ Who heard it was Buckhurst ? ” said Sedg- 
wick, captain of the school, coming forward. 

“ I heard Bradford tell Palmer it was Buck- 
hurst,” said a little boy. • 

“ Where is Bradford ? ” 

“ Here.” 

“ What do you know about Buckhurst ? ” 

“ Wentworth told me that he was afraid Buck- 
hurst was drowned. Heard it at the Brocas ; a 
bargeman told him about a quarter of an hour 
ago.” 

“ Here’s Wentworth — Here’s Wentworth !” a 
hundred voices exclaimed, and they formed a 
circle round him. 

“Well, what did you hear, Wentworth?” 
asked Sedgwick. 

“ I was at the Brocas, and a Bargee told me 
that an Eton fellow had been drowned above 
Surley, and the only Eton boat above Surley to- 
day, as I can learn, is Buckhurst’s four-oar. 
That is all.” 

There was a murmur of hope. 

“ Oh ! come, come,” said Sedgwick, “ there is 
some chance. Who is with Buckhurst ; who 
knows ? ” 

“ I saw him walk down to the Brocas with 
Vere,” said a boy. 

“ I hope it is not Vere,” said a little boy, with a 
tearful eye, “ he never lets any fellow bully me.” 


“ Here’s Maltravers,” halloed out a boy, “ he 
knows something.” 

“ Well, what do you know, Maltravers ? ” 

“ I heard Boots at the Christopher say that 
an Eton fellow was drowned, and that he had 
seen a person who was there.” 

“ Bring Boots here,” said Sedgwick. 

Instantly a band of boys rushed over the way, 
and in a moment the witness was produced. 

“ What have you heard, Sam, about this ac- 
cident ? ” said Sedgwick. 

“ Well, sir, I heerd a young gentleman was 
drowned above Monkey Island,” said Boots. 

“ And no name mentioned ? ” 

“ Well, sir, I believe it was Mr. Coningsby.” 

A general groan of horror. 

“ Coningsby — Coningsby ! By Heavens I 
hope not,” said Sedgwick. 

“ I very much fear so,” said Boots ; “ as how 
the bargeman who told me, saw Mr. Coningsby 
in the Lock House laid out in flannels.” 

“ I had sooner any fellow had been drowned 
than Coningsby,” whispered one boy to another. 

“ I liked him, the best fellow at Eton,” re- 
sponded his companion, in a smothered tone. 

“ What a clever fellow he was ! ” 

“ And so deuced generous ! ” 

“He would have got the medal if he had 
lived.” 

“ And how came he to be drowned ? for he 
was such a fine swimmer ! ” 

“ I heerd Mr. Coningsby was saving another’s 
life,” continued Boots in his evidence, “ which 
makes it in a manner more sorrowful.” 

“ Poor Coningsby ! ” exclaimed a boy, burst- 
ing into tears : “ I move the school goes into 
mourning.” 

“ I wish we could get hold of this bargeman,” 
said Sedgwick. “Now stop, stop, don’t all run 
away in that mad manner ; you frighten the peo- 
ple. Charles Herbert and Palmer, you two go 
down to the Brocas and inquire.” 

But, just at this moment, an increased stir 
and excitement were evident in the Long Walk ; 
the circle round Sedgwick opened, and there ap- 
peared Henry Sydney and Buckhurst. 

There was a dead silence. It was impossible 
that suspense could be strained to a higher pitch. 
The air and countenance of Sydney and Buck- 
hurst were rather excited than mournful or 
alarmed. They needed no inquiries, for before 
they had penetrated the circle they had become 
aware of its cause. 

Buckhurst, the most energetic of beings, was 
of course the first to speak. Henry Sydney in- 
deed looked pale and nervous ; but his compan- 
ion, flushed and resolute, knew exactly how to 
hit a popular assembly, and at once came to the 
point. 

“ It is all a false report — an infernal lie ; Con- 
ingsby is quite safe, and nobody is drowned.” 

There was a cheer that might have been heard 
at Windsor Castle. Then, turning to Sedgwick, 
in an under tone Buckhurst added — 

“ It is all right, but, by Jove ! we have had a 
shaver. I will tell you all in a moment, but we 
want to keep the thing quiet, and so let the fel- 
lows disperse, and we will talk afterwards.” 

In a few moments the Long Walk had re- 
sumed its usual character ; but Sedgewick, Her- 


A FALSE REPORT. 


21 


bert, and one or two others, turned into the play- 
ing fields, where, undisturbed and unnoticed by 
the multitude, they listened to the promised com- 
munication of Buckhurst and Henry Sydney. 

“ You know we went up the river' together,” 
said Buckhurst. “ Myself, Henry Sydney, Con- 
ingsby, Yere, and Millbank. We had breakfasted 
together, and after twelve agreed to go up to 
Maidenhead. Well, we went up much higher 
than we had intended. About a quarter of a 
mile before we had got to the Lock we pulled up ; 
Coningsby was then steering. Well, we fastened 
the boat to, and were all of us stretched out on 
the meadow, when Millbank and Yere said they 
should go and bathe in the Lock Pool. The rest 
of us were opposed ; but, after Millbank and Yere 
had gone about ten minutes, Coningsby, who was 
very fresh, said he had changed his mind and 
should go and bathe too. Sp he left us. He had 
scarcely got to the pool when he heard a cry. 
There was a fellow drowning. He threw off his 
clothes and was in in a moment. The fact is 
this, Millbank had plunged in the pool and found 
himself in some eddies, caused by the meeting 
of two currents. He called out to Yere not to 
come, and tried to swim off. But he was beat, 
and, seeing he was in danger, Yere jumped in. 
But the stream was so strong, from the great fall 
of water from the lasher above, that Yere was 
exhausted before he could reach Millbank, and 
nearly sank himself. Well, he just saved him- 
self; but Millbank sank as Coningsby jumped in. 
What do you think of that ? ” 

“By Jove!” exclaimed Sedgwick, Herbert, 
and all. The favorite oath of school-boys perpet- 
uates the divinity of Olympus. 

“ And now comes the worst. Coningsby 
caught Millbank when he rose; but he found 
himself in the midst of the same strong current 
that had before nearly swamped Yere. What a 
lucky thing that he had taken into his head not 
to pull to-day ! Fresher than Yere, he just man- 
aged to land Millbank and himself. The shouts 
of Yere called us, and we arrived to find the 
bodies of Millbank and Coningsby apparently 
lifeless, for Millbank was quite gone, and Con- 
ingsby had swooned on landing.” 

“ If Coningsby had been lost,” said Henry 
Sydney, “ I never would have sliow r n my face at 
Eton again.” 

“ Can you conceive a position more terrible ? ” 
said Buckhurst. “ I declare I shall never forget 
it as long as I live. However, there was the 
Lock House at hand ; and we got blankets and 
brandy. Coningsby w r as soon all right ; but Mill- 
bank, I can tell you, gave us some trouble. I 
thought it was all up. Didn’t you, Henry Syd- 
ney ? ” 

“ The most fishy thing I ever saw,” said Henry 
Sydney. 

“ Well, we were fairly frightened here,” said 
Sedgwick. “ The first report w r as, that you had 
gone, but that seemed without foundation; but 
Coningsby was quite given up. Where are they 
now ? ” 

“ They are both at their tutors’. I thought 
they had better keep quiet. Yere is with Mill- 
bank, and w r e are going back to Coningsby di- 
rectly; but we thought it best to show', finding 
on our arrival that there were all sorts of ru- 


mors about. I think it will be best to report at 
once to my tutor, for he will be sure to hear 
something.” 

“ I would, if I w r ere you.” 


CHAPTER X. 

What wonderful things are events ! The least 
are of greater importance than the most sublime 
and comprehensive speculations ! In what fanci- 
ful schemes to obtain the friendship of Coningsby 
had Millbank in his reveries often indulged ! 
What combinations that were to extend over 
years and influence their lives ! But, the moment 
that he entered the w^orld of action, his pride re- 
coiled from the plans and hopes which his sym- 
pathy had inspired. His sensibility and his inor- 
dinate self-respect were always at variance. And 
he seldom exchanged a word w r ith the being whose 
idea engrossed his affection. 

And now, suddenty, an event had occurred, 
like all events, unforeseen, which, in a few, brief 
agitating, tumultuous moments, had singularly 
and utterly changed the relations which previously 
subsisted between him and the former object of 
his concealed tenderness. Millbank now stood 
with respect to Coningsby in the position of one 
who ow r es to another the greatest conceivable ob- 
ligation ; a favor which time could permit him 
neither to forget nor to repay. Pride was a senti- 
ment that could no longer subsist before the pre- 
server of his life. Devotion to that being, open, 
almost ostentatious, was now a duty — a para- 
mount and absorbing tie. The sense of past 
peril, the rapture of escape, a renewed relish for 
the life so nearly forfeited, a deep sentiment of de- 
vout gratitude to the Providence that had guarded 
over him — for Millbank was an eminently reli- 
gious boy — a thought of home, and the anguish 
that might have overwhelmed his hearth ; all 
these were powerful and exciting emotions for a 
young and fervent mind, in addition to the pe- 
culiar source of sensibility on which we have al- 
ready touched. Lord Yere, who lodged in the 
same house as Millbank, and was sitting by his 
bedside, observed, as night fell, that his mind 
wandered. 

The illness of Millbank, the character of 
which soon transpired, and was soon exagger- 
ated, attracted the public attention with increased 
interest to the circumstances out of which it had 
arisen, and from which the parties principally con- 
cerned had wished to have diverted notice. The 
sufferer, indeed, had transgressed the rules of the 
school by bathing at an unlicensed spot, where 
there were no expert swimmers in attendance, as 
is customary, to instruct the practice and to 
guard over the lives of the young adventurers. 
But the circumstances with which this violation of 
rules had been accompanied, and the assurance of 
several of the party that they had not themselves 
infringed the regulations, combined wdth the high 
character of Millbank, made the authorities not 
over-anxious to visit w r ith penalties a breach of 
observance which, in the case of the only proved 
offender, had been attended with such impressive 
consequences. The feat of Coningsby was ex- 
tolled as a feat of high gallantry and skill. It 


22 


CONINGSBY. 


confirmed and increased the great reputation 
which he already enjoyed. 

“ Millbank is getting quite well,” said Buck- 
hurst to Coningsby a few days after the accident. 
“ llenry Sydney aud I are going to see him. Will 
you come ? ” 

“ I think we shall be too many. I will go 
another day,” replied Coningsby. 

So they went without him. They found Mill- 
bank up and reading. 

“Well, old fellow,” said Buckhurst, “how 
are you ? We should have come up before, but 
they would not let us. And you are quite right 
now, eh ? ” 

“ Quite. Has there been any row about it ? ” 

“ All blown over,” said Heiwy Sydney ; 
“ C*******y behaved like a trump.” 

“ I have seen nobody yet,” said Millbank ; 
“ they would not let me till to-day. Yere looked 
in this morning and left me this book, but I was 
asleep. I hope they will let me out in a day or 
two. I want to thank Coningsby ; I never shall 
rest till I have thanked Coningsby.” 

“Oh! he will come to see you,” said Henry 
Sydney ; “ I asked him just now to come with us.” 

“ Yes ! ” said Millbank, eagerly ; “ and what 
did he say ? ” 

“ He thought we should be too many.” 

“ I hope I shall see him soon,” said Millbank, 
“ some how or other.” 

“ I will tell him to come,” said Buckhurst. 

“ Oh ! no, no, don’t tell him to come,” said 
Millbank. “ Don’t bore him.” 

“ I know he is going to play a match at fives 
this afternoon,” said Buckhurst, “for I am one.” 

“ And who are the others ? ” inquired Mill- 
bank. 

“ Herbert and Campbell.” 

“ Herbert is no match for Coningsbv,” said 
Millbank. 

And then they talked over all that had hap- 
pened since his absence; and Buckhurst gave 
him a very graphic report of the excitement on 
the afternoon of the accident ; at last they were 
obliged to leave him. 

“ Well, good-bye, old fellow ; we will come and 
see you every day. What can we do for you ? 
Any books, or any thing? ” 

“ If any fellow asks after me,” said Millbank, 
“ tell him I shall be glad to see him. It is very 
dull being alone. But do not tell any fellow to 
come if he does not ask after me.” 

Notwithstanding the kind suggestions of 
Buckhurst and Henry Sydney, Coningsby could 
not easily bring himself to call on Millbank. He 
felt a constraint. It seemed as if he went to re- 
ceive thanks. He would rather have met Mill- 
bank again in school, or in the playing fields. 
Without being able then to analyse his feelings, 
he shrank unconsciously from that ebullition of 
sentiment which, in more artificial circles, is de- 
scribed as a scene. Not that any dislike of Mill- 
bank prompted him to this reserve. On the con- 
tray, since he had conferred a great obligation on 
Millbank, his prejudice against him had sensibly 
decreased. IIow it would have been, had Mill- 
bank saved Coningsby’s life, is quite another af- 
fair. Probably, as Coningsby was by nature gen- 
erous, his sense of justice might have struggled 
successfully with his painful sense of the over- 


whelming obligation. But in the present case 
there was no element to disturb his fair self-satis- 
faction. He had greatly distinguished himself; 
he had conferred on his rival an essential service ; 
and the whole world rang with his applause. He 
began rather to like Millbank ; we will not say 
because Millbank was the unintentional cause of 
his pleasurable sensations. Really it was that 
the unusual circumstances had prompted him to 
a more impartial judgment of his rival’s charac- 
ter. In this mood, the day after the visit of 
Buckhurst and Henry Sydney, Coningsby called 
on Millbank, but, finding his medical attendant 
with him, Coningsby availed himself of that excuse 
for going away without seeing him. 

The next day he left Millbank a newspaper 
on his way to school, time not permitting a visit. 
Two days after, going into his room, he found on 
his table a letter addressed to “ Harry Coningsby, 
Esq.” 

“ Eton, May — , 1832 . 

“ Dear Coningsby — I very much fear that 
you must think me a very ungrateful fellow, be- 
cause you have not heard from me before ; but I 
was in hopes that I might get out and say to you 
what I feel ; but, whether I speak or write, it is 
quite impossible for me to make you understand 
the feelings of my heart to you. Now, I will say 
at once, that I have always liked you better than 
any fellow in the school, and always thought you 
the cleverest ; indeed, I always thought that there 
was no one like you ; but I never would say this 
or show this, because you never seemed to care 
for me, and because I was afraid you would think 
I merely wanted to con with you, as they used to 
say of some other fellows, whose names I will 
not mention, because they always tried to do so 
with Henry Sydney and you. I do not want this 
at all ; but I want, though we may not speak to 
each other more than before, that we may be 
friends; and that you will always know that there 
is nothing I will not do for you, and that I like 
you better than any fellow at Eton. And I do 
not mean that this shall be only at Eton, but 
afterwards, wherever we may be, that you will 
always remember that there is nothing I will not 
do for you. Not because you saved my life, 
though that is a great thing, but because before 
that I would have done any thing for you ; only, 
for the cause above mentioned, I would not show 
it. I do not expect that we shall be more to- 
gether than before ; nor can I ever suppose that 
you could like me as you like Henry Sydney and 
Buckhurst, or even as you like Yere ; but still I 
hope you will always think of me with kindness 
now, and let me sign myself, if ever I do write to 
you, 

“ Your most attached, affectionate, and 
devoted friend, 

“ Oswald Millbank.” 


CHAPTER XI. 

About a fortnight after this nearly fatal adven- 
ture on the river, it was Montem. One need 
hardly remind the reader that this celebrated 
ceremony, of which the origin is lost in obscu- 
rity, and which now occurs triennially, is the ten- 


“SALT” FOR THE MONTEM. 


23 


ure by which Eton College holds some of its do- 
mains. It consists in the waving of a flag by one 
of the scholars, on a mount near the village of 
Salt Hill, which, without doubt, derives its name 
from the circumstance that on this day every vis- 
itor to Eton, and every traveller in its vicinity, 
from the monarch to the peasant, are stopped on 
the road by youthful brigands in picturesque cos- 
tume, and summoned to contribute “ salt,” in the 
shape of coin of the realm, to the purse collecting 
for the Captain of Eton, the senior scholar on the 
Foundation, who is about to repair to King’s Col- 
lege, Cambridge. 

On this day the Captain of Eton appears in a 
dress as martial as his title : indeed, each sixth- 
form boy represents in his uniform, though not 
perhaps according to the exact rules of the Horse 
Guards, an officer of the army. One is a mar- 
shal, another an ensign. There is a lieutenant, 
too ; and the remainder are sergeants. Each of 
those who are intrusted with these ephemeral 
commissions has one or more attendants, the 
number of these varying according to his rank. 
These servitors are selected according to the 
wishes of the several members of the sixth form, 
out of the ranks of the lower boys, that is, those 
boys who are below the fifth form ; and all these 
attendants are arrayed in a variety of fancy 
dresses. The Captain of the Oppidans and the 
senior Colleger next to the Captain of the school, 
figure also in fancy costume, and are called “ Salt- 
bearers.” It is their business, together with the 
twelve senior Collegers of the fifth form, who are 
called “ Runners,” and whose costume is also 
determined by the taste of the wearers, to levy 
the contributions. And all the Oppidans of the 
fifth form, among whom ranked Coningsby, class 
as “ Corporals ; ” and are severally followed by 
one or more lower boys, who are denominated 
“ Polemen,” but who appear in their ordinary 
dress. 

It was a fine, bright morning ; the bells of Eton 
and Windsor rang merrily ; everybody was astir, 
and every moment some gay equipage drove into 
the town. Gaily clustering in the thronged pre- 
cincts of the College, might be observed many a 
glistening form ; airy Greek or sumptuous Otto- 
man, heroes of the Holy Sepulchre, Spanish 
Hidalgos who had fought at Pavia, Highland 
Chiefs who had charged at Culloden, gay in the 
tartan of Prince Charlie. The Long Walk was 
full of busy groups in scarlet coats or fanciful 
uniforms ; some in earnest conversation, some 
criticising the arriving guests ; others encircling 
some magnificent hero, who astounded them with 
his slashed doublet or flowing plume. 

A knot of boys, sitting on the Long Walk 
wall, with their feet swinging in the air, watched 
the arriving guests of the Provost. 

“ I say, Townshend,” said one, “ there’s Grob- 
bleton ; he tvas a bully. I wonder if that’s his 
wife? Who’s this? The Duke of Agincourt. 
He wasn’t an Eton fellow ? Yes, he was. He was 
called Poictiers then. Oh ! ah ! his name is in 
the upper school, very large, under Charles Fox. 
I say, Townshend, did you see Saville’s turban? 
What was it made of? He says his mother 
brought it from Grand Cairo. Didn’t he just 
look like the Saracen’s Head ? Here are some 
Dons. That’s Hallam ! We’ll give him a cheer. 


I say, Townshend, look at this fellow. He doesn’t 
think small-beer of himself. I wonder who he 
is ? The Duke of Wellington’s valet come to say 
his master is engaged. Oh ! by Jove, he heard 
you! I wonder if the Duke will come? Won’t 
we give him a cheer ! ” 

“By Jove ! who is this?” exclaimed Towns- 
hend, and he jumped from the wall, and, followed 
by his companions, rushed towards the road. 

Two britskas, each drawn by four grey horses 
of mettle, and each accompanied by outriders as 
well mounted, were advancing at a rapid pace 
along the road that leads from Slough to the Col- 
lege. But they were destined to an irresistible 
check. About fifty yards before they had reached 
the gate that leads into Weston’s Yard, a ruth- 
less but splendid Albanian, in crimson and gold 
embroidered jacket, and snowy camise, started 
forward, and holding out his silver-sheathed 
yataghan commanded the postilions to stop. A 
Peruvian Inca on the other side of the road gave 
a simultaneous command, and would infallibly 
have transfixed the outriders with an arrow from 
his unerring bow, had they for an instant hesi- 
tated. The Albanian Chief then advanced to the 
door of the carriage, which he opened, and in a 
tone of great courtesy announced that he was 
under the necessity of troubling its inmates for 
“ salt.” There was no delay. The Lord of the 
equipage, with the amiable condescension of a 
“grand monarque,” expressed his hope that the 
collection would be an ample one, and, as an old 
Etonian, placed in the hands of the Albanian his 
contribution, a magnificent purse furnished for 
the occasion, and heavy with gold. 

“ Don’t be alarmed, ladies,” said a very hand- 
some young officer, laughing, and taking off his 
cocked hat. 

“Ah !” exclaimed one of the ladies, turning 
at the voice, and starting a little. “Ah! it is 
Mr. Coningsby.” 

Lord Eskdale paid the salt for the next car- 
riage. “Do they come down pretty stiff?” he 
inquired, and then, pulling forth a roll of bank- 
notes from the pocket of his pea-jacket, he wished 
them good morning. 

The courtly Provost, then the benignant Good- 
all, a man who, though his experience of life was 
confined to the colleges in which he had passed 
his days, was naturally gifted with the rarest of 
all endowments, the talent of reception ; and 
whose happy bearing and gracious manner — a 
smile ever in his eye and a lively word ever on 
his lip — must be recalled by all with pleasant 
recollections, welcomed Lord Monmouth and his 
friends to an assemblage of the noble, the beau- 
tiful, and the celebrated, gathered together in 
rooms not unworthy of them, as you looked upon 
their interesting walls, breathing with the por- 
traits of the heroes whom Eton boasts — from 
Wotton to Wellesley. Music sounded in the 
quadrangle of the College, in which the boys 
were already quickly assembling. The Duke of 
Wellington had arrived, and the boys were cheer- 
ing a hero, who was also an Eton field-marshal. 
From an oriel window in one of the Provost’s 
rooms, Lord Monmouth, surrounded by every 
circumstance that could make life delightful, 
watched with some intentness the scene in the 
quadrangle beneath. 


24 


CONINGSBY. 


“I would give his fame,” said Lord Mon- 
mouth, “ if I had it, and my wealth — to be six- 
teen.” 

Five hundred of the youth of England, spark- 
ling with health, high spirits, and fancy dresses, 
were now assembled in the quadrangle. They 
formed into rank, and, headed by a band of the 
Guards, thrice they marched round the court. 
Then quitting the College, they commenced their 
progress “ ad Montem.” It was a brilliant spec- 
tacle to see them defiling through the playing 
fields — those bowery meads ; the river sparkling 
in the sun, the castled heights of Windsor, their 
glorious landscape; behind them, the pinnacles 
of their College. . 

The road from Eton to Salt Hill was clogged 
with carriages ; the broad fields, as far as eye 
could range, were covered with human beings. 
Amid the burst of martial music and the shouts 
of the multitude, the band of heroes, as if they 
were marching from Athens, or Thebes, or Sparta, 
to some heroic deed, encircled the mount ; the 
ensign reaches its summit, and then, amid a 
deafening cry of “ Floreat Eton ! ” he unfurls, 
and thrice waves the consecrated standard. 

“ Lord Mopmouth,” said Mr. Rigby to Con- 
ingsby, “ wishes that you should beg your 
friends to dine with him. Of course you will ask 
Lord Henry and your friend Sir Charles Buck- 
hurst ; and is there any one else that you would 
like to invite ? ” 

“Why, there is Vere,” said Coningsbv, hesi- 
tating, “ and — ” 

“ Vere! What, Lord Vere? ” said Mr. Rigby. 
“ Hum ! He is one of your friends, is he ? His 
father has done a great deal of mischief, but still 
he is Lord Yere. Well, of course, you can invite 
Yere.” 

“ There is another fellow I should like to ask 
very much,” said Coningsby, “if Lord Monmouth 
would not think I w r as asking too many.” 

“Never fear that ; he sent me particularly to 
tell you to invite as many as you liked.” 

“Well, then, I should like to ask Millbank.” 

“ Millbank ! ” said Mr. Rigby, a little excited, 
and then he added, “ Is that a son of Lady Albi- 
nia Millbank.” 

“ No ; his mother is not a Lady Albinia, but 
he is a great friend of mine. His father is a Lan- 
cashire manufacturer.” 

“ By no means,” exclaimed Mr. Rigby, quite 
agitated. “There is nothing in the world that 
Lord Monmouth dislikes so much as Manchester 
manufacturers, and particularly if they bear the 
name of Millbank. It must not be thought of, my 
dear Harry. I hope you have not spoken to the 
young man on the subject. I assure you it is 
quite out of the question. It would make Lord 
Monmouth quite ill. It would spoil every thing — 
quite upset him.” 

It was, of course, impossible for Coningsby 
to urge his wishes against such representations. 
He was disappointed — rather amazed ; but, Ma- 
dame Colonna having sent for him to introduce 
her to some of the scenes and details of Eton life, 
his vexation was soon absorbed in the pride of 
acting in the face of his companions as the cav- 
alier of a beautiful lady, and becoming the cice- 
rone of the most brilliant party that had attended 
Montem. He presented his friends, too, to Lord 


Monmouth, who gave them a cordial invitation to 
dine with him at his hotel at Windsor, which 
they warmly accepted. Buckhurst delighted the 
Marquess by his reckless genius. Even Lucretia 
deigned to appear amused ; especially when, on 
visiting the upper school, the name of Cardiff, 
the title Lord Monmouth bore in his youthful 
days, was pointed out to her by Coningsby, cut 
with his grandfather’s own knife on the classic 
panels of that memorable wall in which scarcely 
a name that has flourished in our history, since 
the commencement of the eighteenth century, 
may not be observed with curious admiration. 

It was the humor of Lord Monmouth that the 
boys should be entertained with the most various 
and delicious banquet that luxury could devise 
or money could command. For some days be- 
forehand orders had been given for the prepara- 
tion of this festival. Our friends did full justice 
to their Lucullus ; Buckhurst especially, who 
gave his opinion on the most refined dishes with 
all the intrepidity of saucy ignorance, and occa- 
sionally shook his head over a glass' of Hermitage 
or Cote Rotie with a dissatisfaction which a 
satiated Sybarite could not have exceeded. Con- 
sidering all things, Coningsby and his friends 
exhibited a great deal of self-command ; but they 
were gay, even to the verge of frolic. But then 
the occasion justified it, as much as their youth. 
All were in high spirits. Madame Colonna de- 
clared that she had met nothing in England equal 
to Montem ; that it was a Protestant Carnival ; 
and that its only fault was that it did not last 
forty days. The Prince himself was all anima- 
tion, and took wine with every one of the Etoni- 
ans several times. All went on flowingly until 
Mr. Rigby contradicted Buckhurst on some point 
of Eton discipline, which Buckhurst would not 
stand. He rallied Mr. Rigby roundly, and Con- 
ingsby, full of champagne, and owing Rigby 
several years of contradiction, followed up the 
assault. Lord Monmouth, who liked a butt, and 
had a weakness for boisterous gaiety, slyly en- 
couraged the boys, till Rigby began to lose his 
temper and get noisy. 

The lads had the best of it ; they said a great 
manny funny things, and delivered themselves of 
several sharp retorts ; whereas there was some- 
thing ridiculous in Rigby putting forth his 
“ slashing ” talents against such younkers. How- 
ever, he brought the infliction on himself by his 
strange habit of deciding on subjects of which he 
knew nothing, and of always contradicting per- 
sons on the very subjects of which they were 
necessarily masters. 

To see Rigby baited was more amusement to 
Lord Monmouth even than Montem. Lucian 
Gay, however, when the affair was getting trou- 
blesome, came forward as a diversion. He sang 
an extemporaneous song on the ceremony of the 
day, and introduced the names of all the guests 
at the dinner, and of a great many other persons 
besides. This was capital! The boys were in 
raptures, but, when the singer threw forth a verse 
about Docter Keate, the applause became uproar- 
ious. 

“ Good-bye, my dear Harry,” said Lord Mon- 
mouth, when he bade his grandson farewell. “ I 
am going abroad again ; I cannot remain in this 
Radical ridden country. Remember, though I 


SPORTING AND POLITICS. 


25 


am away, Monmouth House is your home — at 
least so long as it belongs to me. I understand 
my tailor has turned Liberal, and is going to 
stand for one of the metropolitan districts — a 
friend of Lord Durham ; perhaps I shall find him 
in it when I return. I fear there are evil days 
for the New Generation ! ” 


BOOK II. 

CHAPTER I. 

It was early in November, 1834, and a large 
sliooting-party was assembled at Beaumanoir, the 
seat of that great nobleman, who was the father 
of Henry Sydney. England is unrivalled for two 
things — sporting and politics. They were com- 
bined at Beaumanoir ; for the guests came not 
merely to slaughter the Duke’s pheasants, but to 
hold counsel on the prospects of the party, which, 
it was supposed by the initiated, began at this 
time to indicate some symptoms of brightening. 

The success of the Reform Ministry, on their 
first appeal to the new constituency which they 
had created, had been fatally complete. But the 
triumph was as destructive to the victors as to 
the vanquished. 

“We are too strong,” prophetically exclaimed 
one of the fortunate cabinet, which found itself 
supported by an inconceivable majority of three 
hundred. It is to be hoped that some future 
publisher of private memoirs may have preserved 
some of the traits of that crude and short-lived 
Parliament, w r hen old Cobbett insolently thrust 
Sir Robert from the prescriptive seat of the 
chief of opposition, and treasury understrappers 
sneered at the “ queer lot ” that had arrived from 
Ireland, little foreseeing what a high bidding that 
“ queer lot ” would eventually command. Grati- 
tude to Lord Grey was the hustings-cry at the end 
of 1832, the pretext that was to return to the 
newMnodelled House of Commons none but men 
devoted to the Whig cause. The successful 
simulation, like every thing that is false, carried 
within it the seeds of its own dissolution. In- 
gratitude to Lord Grey was more the fashion at 
the commencement of 1834, and, before the close 
of that eventful year, the once popular Reform 
Ministry was upset, and the eagerly-sought Re- 
form Parliament dissolved ! 

It can scarcely be alleged that the public was 
altogether unprepared for this catastrophe. Many 
deemed it inevitable; few thought it imminent. 
The career of the Ministry, and the existence of 
the Parliament, had indeed from the first been 
turbulent and fitful. It was known, from author- 
ity, that there were dissensions in the cabinet ; 
while a House of Commons which passed votes 
on subjects not less important than a repeal of a 
tax, or the impeachment of a judge, on one night, 
and rescinded its resolutions on the following, 
certainly established no increased claims to the 
confidence of its constituents in its discretion. 
Nevertheless, there existed at this period a preva- 
lent conviction that the Whig party, by a great 
stroke of state, similar in magnitude and effect to 
that which in the preceding century bad changed 


the dynasty, had secured to themselves the govern- 
ment of this country for, at least, the lives of the 
present generation. And even the well-informed 
in such matters were inclined to look upon the 
perplexing circumstances to which we have al- 
luded rather as symptoms of a want of discipline 
in a new system of tactics, than as evidences of 
any essential and deeply-rooted disorder. 

The startling rapidity, however, of the strange 
incidents of 1834; the indignant, soon to become 
vituperative, secession of a considerable sectioh 
of the cabinet, some of them esteemed too at that 
time among its most efficient members ; the pit- 
eous deprecation of “ pressure from without,” 
from lips hitherto deemed too stately for entreaty, 
followed by the Trades’ Union, thirty thousand 
strong, parading in procession to Downing Street ; 
the Irish negotiations of Lord Hatherton, strange 
blending of complex intrigue and almost infantile 
ingenuousness ; the still inexplicable resignation 
of Lord Althorp, hurriedly followed by his still 
more mysterious resumption of power, the only 
result of his precipitate movements being the fall 
of Lord Grey himself, attended by circumstances 
which even a friendly historian could scarcely 
describe as honorable to his party or dignified to 
himself; latterly, the extemporaneous address of 
King William to the Bishops ; the vagrant and 
grotesque apocalypse of the Lord Chancellor ; 
and the fierce recrimination and memorable defi- 
ance of the Edinburgh banquet — all these im- 
pressive instances of public affairs and public con- 
duct had combined to create a predominant opin- 
ion that, whatever might be the consequences, 
the prolonged continuance of the present party 
in power was a clear impossibility. 

It is evident that the suicidal career of what 
was then styled the Liberal party had been oc- 
casioned and stimulated by its unnatural excess 
of strength. The apoplectic plethora of 1834 was 
not less fatal than the paralytic tenuity of 1841. 
It was not feasible to gratify so many ambitions, 
or to satisfy so many expectations. Every man 
had his double ; the heels of every placeman were 
dogged by friendly rivals ready to trip them up. 
There were even two cabinets ; the one that met 
in council, and the one that met in cabal. The 
consequence of destroying the legitimate Opposi- 
tion of the country was, that a moiety of the sup- 
porters of Government had to discharge the du- 
ties of Opposition. 

Herein, then, we detect the real cause of all 
that irregular and unsettled carriage of public 
men which so perplexed the nation after the pass- 
ing of the Reform Act. No government can be 
long secure without a formidable Opposition. It 
reduces their supporters to that tractable num- 
ber which can be managed by the joint influences 
of fruition and of hope. It offers vengeance to 
the discontented, and distinction to the ambi- 
tious ; and employs the energies of aspiring spirits, 
who otherwise inay prove traitors in a division or 
assassins in a debate. 

The general election of 1832 abrogated the 
Parliamentary Opposition of England, which had 
practically existed for more than a century and a 
half. And what a series of equivocal transactions 
and mortifying adventures did the withdrawal of 
this salutary restraint entail on the party which 
then so loudly congratulated themselves and the 


26 


CONINGSBY. 


country that they were at length relieved from its 
odious repression ! In the hurry of existence one 
is apt too generally to pass over the political his- 
tory of the times in which "we ourselves live. The 
two years that followed the Reform of the House 
of Commons are full of instruction, on which a 
young man would do well to ponder. It is hardly 
possible that he could rise from the study of these 
annals without a confirmed disgust for political 
intrigue ; a dazzling practice, apt at first to fas- 
cinate youth, for it appeals at once to our inven- 
tion and our courage, but one which really should 
only be the resource of the second-rate. Great 
minds must trust to great truths and great talents 
for their rise, and nothing else. 

While, however, as the autumn of 1834 ad- 
vanced, the people of this country became gradu- 
ally sensible of the necessity of some change in 
the councils of their Sovereign, no man felt capa- 
ble of predicting by what means it was to be ac- 
complished, or from what quarry the new ma- 
terials were to be extracted. The Tory party, 
according to those perverted views of Toryism un- 
happily too long prevalent in this country, was 
held to be literally defunct, except by a few old 
battered crones of office, crouched round the em- 
bers of faction which they were fanning, and 
muttering “ reaction ” in mystic whispers. It 
cannot be supposed, indeed, for a moment, that 
the distinguished personage who had led the party 
in the House of Commons, previously to the pass- 
ing of the act of 1832, ever despaired in conse- 
quence of his own career. His then time of life, 
the perfection, almost the prime of manhood ; his 
parliamentary practice, doubly estimable in an ex- 
perienced assembly ; his political knowledge ; his 
fair character and reputable position ; his talents 
and tone as a public speaker, which he had al- 
ways aimed to adapt to the habits and culture of 
that middle class from which it was concluded 
the benches of the new Parliament were mainly 
to be recruited — all these were qualities the pos- 
session of which must have assured a mind not 
apt to be disturbed in its calculations by any in- 
temperate heats, that" with time and patience the 
game was yet for him. 

Unquestionably, whatever may have been in- 
sinuated, this distinguished person had no inkling 
that his services in 1834 might be claimed by his 
Sovereign. At the close of the session of that 
year he had quitted England with his family, and 
had arrived at Rome, where it was his intention 
to pass the winter. The party charges that have 
imputed to him a previous and sinister knowledge 
of the intentions of the Court, appear to have 
been made not only in ignorance of the personal 
character, but of the real position, of the future 
minister. 

It had been the misfortune of this eminent 
gentleman when he first entered public life, to 
become identified with a political connection, 
which, having arrogated to itself the name of an 
illustrious historical party, pursued a policy which 
was either founded on no principle whatever, or 
on principles exactly contrary to those which had 
always guided the conduct of the great Tory 
leaders. The chief members of this official con- 
federacy were men distinguished by none of the 
conspicuous qualities of statesmen. They had 
none of the divine gifts that govern senates and 


guide councils. They were not orators ; they 
were not men of deep thought or happy resource, 
or of penetrative and sagacious minds. Their 
political ken was essentially dull and contracted. 
They expended some energy in obtaining a de- 
fective, blundering acquaintance with foreign 
affairs ; they knew as little of the real state of 
their own country as savages of an approaching 
eclipse. This factious league had shuffled them- 
selves into power by clinging to the skirts of a 
great minister, the last of Tory statesmen, but 
who, in the unparalleled and confounding emer- 
gencies of his latter years, had been forced, un- 
fortunately for England, to relinquish Toryism. 
His successors inherited all his, errors without 
the latent genius which, in him, might have still 
rallied and extricated him from the consequences 
of his disasters. His successors did not merely 
inherit his errors ; they exaggerated, they carica- 
tured them. They rode into power on a spring- 
tide of all the rampant prejudices and rancorous 
passions of their time. From the King to the 
boor, their policy was a mere pandering to public 
ignorance. Impudently usurping the name of that 
party of which nationality, and therefore univer- 
sality, is the essence, these pseudo-Tories made 
Exclusion the principle of their political constitu- 
tion, and Restriction the genius of their commer- 
cial code. 

The blind goddess that plays with human 
fortunes has mixed up the memory of these men 
with traditions of national glory. They con- 
ducted to a prosperous conclusion the most re- 
nowned war in which England has ever been en- 
gaged. Yet every military conception that ema- 
nated from their cabinet was branded by their 
characteristic want of grandeur. Chance, how- 
ever, sent them a great military genius, whom 
they treated for a long time with indifference, and 
whom they never heartily supported until his 
career had made him their master. His tran- 
scendent exploits, and European events even 
greater than his achievements, placed in the 
manikin grasp of the English ministry— the set- 
tlement of Europe. 

The act of the Congress of Vienna remains 
the eternal monument of their diplomatic knowl- 
edge and political sagacity. Their capital feats 
were the creation of two kingdoms, both of which 
are already erased from the map of Europe. 
They made no single preparation for the inevita- 
ble, almost impending, conjunctures of the East. 
All that remains of the pragmatic arrangements 
of the mighty Congress of Vienna is the media- 
tiazation of the petty German princes. 

But the settlement of Europe by the pseudo- 
Tories was the dictate of inspiration compared 
with their settlement of England. The peace of 
Paris found the government of this country in the 
hands of a body of men of whom it is no exag- 
geration to say that they were ignorant of every 
principle of every branch of political science. So 
long as our domestic administration was confined 
merely to the raising of a revenue, they levied 
taxes with gross facility from the industry of a 
country too busy too criticise or complain. But, 
when the excitement and distraction of war had 
ceased, and they were forced to survey the social 
elements that surrounded them, they seemed, for 
the first time, to have become conscious of their 


ADMINISTRATION AND GOVERNMENT. 


27 


own incapacity. These men, indeed, were the 
mere children of routine. They prided them- 
selves on being practical men. In the language 
of this defunct school of statesmen, a practical 
man is a man who pi'actises the blunders of his 
predecessors. 

Now commenced that Condition-of-England 
Question of which our generation hears so much. 
During five-and-twenty years every influence that 
can develop the energies and resources of a na- 
tion had been acting with concentrated stimula- 
tion on the British Isles. National peril and na- 
tional glory ; the perpetual menace of invasion, 
the continual triumph of conquest ; the most ex- 
tensive foreign commerce that was ever conducted 
by a single nation; an illimitable currency; an 
internal trade supported by swarming millions, 
whom manufactures and inclosure-bills summoned 
into existence ; above all, the supreme control ob- 
tained by man over mechanic power — these are 
some of the causes of that rapid advance of ma- 
terial civilization in England, to which the annals 
of the world can afford no parallel. But there 
was no proportionate advance in our moral civili- 
zation. In the hurry-skurry of money-making, 
men-making, and machine-making, we had alto- 
gether outgrown, not the spirit, but the organiza- 
tion of our institutions. 

The peace came; the stimulating influences 
suddenly ceased ; the people, in a novel and pain- 
ful position, found themselves without guides. 
They went to the ministry; they asked to be 
guided ; they asked to be governed. Commerce 
requested a code ; trade required a currency ; the 
unfranchised subject solicited his equal privilege ; 
suffering labor clamored for its rights ; a new 
race demanded education. What did the minis- 
try do ? 

They fell into a panic. Having fulfilled dur- 
ing their lives the duties of administration, they 
were frightened because they were called upon, 
for the first time, to perform the functions of 
government. Like all weak men, they had re- 
course to what they called strong measures. 
They determined to put down the multitude. 
They thought they were imitating Mr. Pitt, be- 
cause they mistook disorganization for sedition. 

Their projects of relief were as ridiculous as 
their system of coercion was ruthless ; both were 
alike founded in intense ignorance. When we 
recall Mr. Vansittart with his currency resolu- 
tions ; Lord Castlereagh with his plans for the 
employment of labor; and Lord Sidmouth with 
his plots for ensnaring the laborious; we are 
tempted to imagine that the present epoch has 
been one of peculiar advances in political ability, 
and marvel how England could have attained her 
present pitch under a series of such governors. 

We should, however, be laboring under a 
very erroneous impression. Run over the states- 
men that have figured in England since the ac- 
cession of the present family, and we may doubt 
whether there be one, with the exception perhaps 
of the Duke of Newcastle, who would have been 
a worthy colleague of the council of Mr. Perceval, 
or the early cabinet of Lord Liverpool. Assured- 
ly the genius of Bolingbroke and the sagacity of 
Walpole would have alike recoiled from such men 
and such measures. And, if we take the individu- 
als who were governing England immediately be- 


fore the French Revolution, one need only refer 
to the speeches of Mr. Pitt, and especially to 
those of that profound statesman and most in- 
structed man, Lord Shelburne, to find that we can 
boast no remarkable superiority either in political 
justice or in political economy. One must at- 
tribute this degeneracy, therefore, to the long 
war and our insular position, acting upon men 
naturally of inferior abilities, and, unfortunately, 
in addition, of illiterate habits. 

In the mean time, notwithstanding all the ef- 
forts of the political Panglosses who, in evening 
Journals and Quarterly Reviews, were continually 
proving that this was the best of all possible gov- 
ernments, it was evident to the ministry itself 
that the machine must stop. The class of Rig- 
bys indeed at this period, one eminently favorable 
to that fungous tribe, greatly distinguished them- 
selves. They demonstrated in a manner abso- 
lutely convincing, that it was impossible for any 
person to possess any ability, knowledge, or vir- 
tue, any capacity of reasoning, any ray of fancy, 
or faculty of imagination, who was not a support- 
er of the existing administration. If any one im- 
peached the management of a department, the 
public was assured that the accuser ‘had em- 
bezzled ; if any one complained of the conduct of 
a colonial governor, the complainant was an- 
nounced as a returned convict. An amelioration 
of the criminal code was discountenanced because 
a search in the parish register of an obscure vil- 
lage proved that the proposer had not been born 
in wedlock. A relaxation of the commercial sys- 
tem was denounced because one of its principal 
advocates was a Socinian. The inutility of Par- 
liamentary Reform was ever obvious since Mr. 
Rigby was a member of the House of Commons. 

To us, with our “ Times ” newspaper every 
morning on our breakfast-table, bringing, on 
every subject which can interest the public mind, 
a degree of information and intelligence which 
must form a security against any prolonged pub- 
lic misconception, it seems incredible that only 
five-and-twenty years ago the English mind could 
have been so ridden and hoodwinked, and that, 
too, by men of mean attainments and moderate 
abilities. But the war had directed the energies 
of the English people into channels by no means 
favorable to political education. Conquerors of 
the world, with their ports filled with the ship- 
ping of every clime, and their manufactories sup- 
plying the European continent in the art of self- 
government, that art in which their fathers ex- 
celled, they had become literally children ; and 
Rigby and his brother hirelings were the nurses 
that frightened them with hideous fables and ugly 
■words. 

Notwithstanding, however, all this successful 
mystification, the Arch-Mediocritv who presided, 
rather than ruled, over this Cabinet of Medioc- 
rities, became hourly more conscious that the in- 
evitable transition from fulfilling the duties of an 
administration to performing the functions of a 
government, could not be conducted without tal- 
ents and knowledge. The Arch-Mediocrity had 
himself some glimmering traditions of political 
science. He was sprung from a laborious stock, 
had received some training, and, though not a 
statesman, might be classed among those whom 
the Lord Keeper Williams used to call “state- 


28 


CONINGSBY. 


mongers.” In a subordinate position his meagre 
diligence and his frigid method might not have 
been without value; but the qualities that he 
possessed were misplaced ; nor can any character 
be conceived less invested with the happy prop- 
erties of a leader. In the conduct of public af- 
fairs his disposition was exactly the reverse of 
that which is the characteristic of great men. He 
was peremptory in little questions, and great ones 
he left open. 

In the natural course of events, in 1819 there 
ought to have been a change of government, and 
another party in the state should have entered 
into office ; but the Whigs, though they counted 
in their ranks at that period an unusual number 
of men of great ability, and formed, indeed, a 
compact and spirited opposition, were unable to 
contend against the new adjustment of borough 
influence which had occurred during the war, and 
under the protracted administration by which that 
war had been conducted. New families had 
arisen on the Tory side that almost rivalled old 
Newcastle himself in their electioneering manage- 
ment; and it was evident that, unless some recon- 
struction of the House of Commons could be ef- 
fected, the Whig party could never obtain a per- 
manent hold of official power. Hence, from that 
period, the Whigs became Parliamentary Re- 
formers. 

It was inevitable, therefore, that the country 
should be governed by the same party ; indispen- 
sable that the ministry should be renovated by 
new brains and blood. Accordingly, a Medioc- 
rity, not without repugnance, was induced to 
withdraw, and the great name of Wellington sup- 
plied his place in council. The talents of the 
Duke, as they were then understood, were not 
exactly of the kind most required by the cabinet, 
and his colleagues were careful that he should not 
occupy too prominent a post ; but still it was an 
impressive acquisition, and imparted to the min- 
istry a semblance of renown. 

There was an individual who had not long en- 
tered public life, but who had already filled con- 
siderable, though still subordinate, offices. Hav- 
ing acquired a certain experience of the duties 
of administration, and distinction for his mode of 
fulfilling them, he had withdrawn from his public 
charge ; perhaps because he found it a barrier to 
the attainment of that parliamentary reputation 
for which he had already shown both a desire and 
a capacity ; perhaps, because being young and in- 
dependent, he was not over-anxious irremedi- 
ably to identify his career with a school of politics 
of the infallibility of which his experience might 
have already made him a little sceptical. But he 
possessed the talents that were absolutely wanted, 
and the terms were at his own dictation. An- 
other, and a very distinguished Mediocrity, who 
would not resign, was thrust out, and Mr. Peel 
became Secretary of State. 

From this moment dates that intimate connec- 
tion between the Duke of Wellington and the 
present First Minister, which has exercised a con- 
siderable influence over the career of individuals 
and the course of affairs. It was the sympathetic 
result of superior minds placed among inferior in- 
telligences, and was, doubtless, assisted by a then 
mutual couviction, that the difference of age, the 
circumstance of sitting in different houses, and 


the general contrast of their previous pursuits 
and accomplishments, rendered personal rivalry 
out of the question. From this moment, too, the 
domestic government of the country assumed a new 
character, and one universally admitted to have 
been distinguished by a spirit of enlightened 
progress and comprehensive amelioration. 

A short time after this, a third and most dis- 
tinguished Mediocrity died ; and Canning, whom 
they had twice worried out of the cabinet, where 
they had tolerated him some time in an obscure 
and ambiguous position, was recalled just in time 
from his impending banishment, installed in the 
first post in the Lower House, and intrusted with 
the seals of the Foreign Office. The Duke of 
Wellington had coveted them, nor could Lord 
Liverpool have been insensible to his Grace’s pe- 
culiar fitness for such duties ; but strength was 
required in the House of Commons, where they 
had only one Secretary of State, a young man al- 
ready distinguished, yet untried as a leader, and 
surrounded by colleagues notoriously incapable to 
assist him in debate. 

The accession of Mr. Canning to the cabinet, 
in a position, too, of surpassing influence, soon 
led to a further weeding of the Mediocrities, and 
among other introductions, to the memorable en- 
trance of Mr. Huskisson. In this wise did that 
cabinet, once notable only for the absence of all 
those qualities which authorise the possession of 
power, come to be generally esteemed as a body 
of men, who, for parliamentary eloquence, official 
practice, political information, sagacity in council, 
and a due understanding of their epoch, were in- 
ferior to none that had directed the policy of the 
empire since the Revolution. 

If we survey the tenor of the policy of the 
Liverpool Cabinet during the latter moiety of its 
continuance, we shall find its characteristic to be 
a partial recurrence to those frank principles of 
government which Mr. Pitt had revived during 
the latter part of the last century from prece- 
dents that had been set us, either in practice oi 
in dogma, during its earlier period by statesmen, 
who then not only bore the title, but professed 
the opinions, of Tories. Exclusive principles in 
the constitution, and restrictive principles in 
commerce, have grown up together; and have 
really nothing in common with the ancient char- 
acter of our political settlement, or the manners 
and customs of the English people. Confidence 
in the loyalty of the nation, testified by munifi- 
cent grants of rights and franchises, and favor to 
an expansive system of traffic, were distinctive 
qualities of the English sovereignty, until the 
House of Commons usurped the better portion 
of its prerogatives. A widening of our electoral 
scheme, great facilities to commerce, and the 
rescue of our Roman Catholic fellow-subjects 
from the Puritanic yoke, from fetters which have 
been fastened on them by English Parliaments in 
spite of the protests and exertions of English 
Sovereigns ; these were the three great elements 
and fundamental truths of the real Pitt system — 
a system founded on the traditions of our mon- 
archy, and caught from the writings, the speeches, 
the councils, of those who, for the sake of these 
and analogous benefits, had ever been anxious 
that the Sovereign of England should never be 
degraded into the position of a Venetian Doge. 


THE LIVERPOOL CABINET. 


29 


It is in the plunder of the Church that we 
must seek for the primary cause of our political 
exclusion, and our commercial restraint. That 
unhallowed booty created a factitious aristocracy, 
ever fearful that they might be called upon 
to regorge their sacrilegious spoil. To prevent 
this they took refuge in political religionism, 
and paltering with the disturbed conscience, or 
the pious fantasies, of a portion of the people, 
they organised them into religious sects. These 
became the unconscious Praetorians of their ill- 
gotten domains. At the head of these religion- 
ists, they have continued ever since to govern, or 
powerfully to influence, this country. They have 
in that time pulled down thrones and churches, 
changed dynasties, abrogated and remodelled 
parliaments ; they have disfranchised Scotland, 
and confiscated Ireland. One may admire the 
vigor and consistency of the Whig party, and 
recognise in their career that unity of purpose 
that can only spring from a great principle ; but 
the Whigs introduced sectarian religion, sectarian 
religion led to political exclusion, and political 
exclusion was soon accompanied by commercial 
restraint. 

It would be fanciful to assume that the Liv- 
erpool Cabinet, in their ameliorating career, was 
directed by any desire to recur to the primordial 
tenets of the Tory party. That was not an epoch 
when statesmen cared to prosecute the investiga- 
tion of principles. It was a period of happy and 
enlightened practice. A profounder policy is 
the offspring of a time like the present, when the 
original postulates of institutions are called in 
question. The Liverpool Cabinet unconsciously 
approximated to these opinions, because from 
careful experiment they were convinced of their 
beneficial tendency, and they thus bore an unin- 
tentional and impartial testimony to their truth. 
Like many men, who think they are inventors, 
they were only reproducing ancient wisdom. 

But one must ever deplore that this ministry, 
with all their talents and generous ardor, did not 
advance to principles. It is always perilous to 
adopt expediency as a guide ; but the choice may 
be sometimes imperative. These statesmen, how- 
ever, took expediency for their director, when 
principle would have given them all that expedi- 
ency ensured, and much more. 

This ministry, strong in the confidence of the 
sovereign, the parliament, and the people, might, 
by the courageous promulgation of great histori- 
cal truths, have gradually formed a public opin- 
ion, that would have permitted them to organise 
the Tory party on a broad, a permanent, and na- 
tional basis. They might have nobly effected a 
complete settlement of Ireland, which a shattered 
section of this very cabinet was forced a few 
years after to do partially, and in an equivocating 
and equivocal manner. They might have con- 
cluded a satisfactory reconstruction of the third 
estate, without producing that convulsion with 
which, from its violent fabrication, our social 
system still vibrates. Lastly, they might have 
adjusted the rights and properties of our national 
industries in a manner which would have pre- 
vented that fierce and fatal rivalry that is now 
disturbing every hearth of the United Kingdom. 

We may, therefore, visit on the laches of this 
ministry the introduction of that new principle 


and power into our constitution which ultimately 
may absorb all — Agitation. This cabinet, then, 
with so much brilliancy on its surface, is the real 
parent of the Roman Catholic Association, the 
Political Unions, the Anti-Corn-Law League. 

There is no influence at the same time so pow- 
erful and so singular as that of individual char- 
acter. It arises as often from the weakness of 
the character as from its strength. The disper- 
sion of this clever and showy ministry is a fine 
illustration of this truth. One morning the Arch- 
Mediocrity himself died. At the first blush, it 
would seem that little difficulties could be expe- 
rienced in finding his substitute. His long occu- 
pation of the post proved, at any rate, that the 
qualification was not excessive. But this cabi- 
net, with its serene and blooming visage, had 
been all this time charged with fierce and emu- 
lous ambitions. They waited the signal, but they 
waited in grim repose. The death of the nom- 
inal leader, whose formal superiority, wounding 
no vanity, and offending no pride, secured in their 
councils equality among the able, was the tocsin 
of their anarchy. There existed in this cabinet 
two men, who were resolved immediately to be 
prime ministers ; a third who was resolved event- 
ually to be prime minister, but would at any rate 
occupy no ministerial post without the lead of a 
House of Parliament ; and a fourth who felt him- 
self capable of being prime minister, but de- 
spaired of the revolution which could alone make 
him one ; and who found an untimely end when 
that revolution had arrived. 

Had Mr. Secretary Canning remained leader 
of the House of Commons under the Duke of 
Wellington, all that he would have gained by the 
death of Lord Liverpool was a master. Had the 
Duke of Wellington become Secretary of State 
under Mr. Canning, he would have materially ad- 
vanced his political position, not only by holding 
the seals of a high department in wdiich he was 
calculated to excel, but by becoming leader of the 
House of Lords. But his Grace w as induced by 
certain court intriguers to believe that the King 
would send for him, and he was also aware that 
Mr. Peel w r ould no longer serve under any minis- 
ter in the House of Commons. Under any cir- 
cumstances it would have been impossible to 
keep the Liverpool Cabinet together. The strug- p 
gle, therefore, between the Duke of Wellington 
and “ my dear Mr. Canning ” was internecine, and 
ended somewhat unexpectedly. 

And here we must stop to do justice to our 
friend Mr. Rigby, whose conduct on this occasion 
was distinguished by a bustling dexterity which 
was quite charming. He had, as we have before 
intimated, on the credit of some clever lampoons 
written during the Queen’s trial, which were, in 
fact, the effusions of Lucian Gay, wriggled him- 
self into a sort of occasional unworthy favor at 
the palace, where he was half butt and half buf- 
foon. Here, during the interregnum occasioned 
by the death, or rather inevitable retirement, of 
Lord Liverpool, Mr. Rigby contrived to scrape 
up a conviction that the Duke was the winning 
horse, and in consequence there appeared a series 
of leading articles in a notorious evening news- 
paper, in which it w r as, as Tadpole and Taper de- 
clared, most “ slashingly ” shown, that the son of 
an actress could never be tolerated as a Prime 


30 


CONINGSBY. 


Minister of England. Not content with this, and 
never doubting for a moment the authentic basis 
of his persuasion, Mr. Rigby poured forth his 
coarse volubility on the subject at several of the 
new clubs which he was getting up in order to 
revenge himself for having been black-balled at 
White’s. 

What Avith arrangements about Lord Mon- 
mouth’s boroughs, and the lucky bottling of some 
claret which the Duke had imported on Mr. Rig- 
by’s recommendation, this distinguished gentle- 
man contrived to pay almost hourly visits at 
Apsley House, and so bullied Tadpole and Taper 
that they scarcely dared address him. About 
four-and-twenty hours before the result, and 
when it was generally supposed that the Duke 
was in, Mr. Rigby, who had gone down to Wind- 
sor to ask his Majesty the date of some obscure 
historical incident, which Rigby, of course, very 
well knew, found that audiences were impossible, 
that Majesty was agitated, and learned, from 
an humble but secure authority that, in spite of 
all his slashing articles, and Lucian Gay’s paro- 
dies of the Irislt melodies, Canning was to be. 
Prime Minister. 

This would seem something of a predicament ! 
To common minds, there are no such things as 
scrapes for gentlemen Avith Mr. Rigby’s talents 
for action. He had, indeed, in the world, the 
credit of being an adept in machinations, and 
was supposed ever to be involved in profound 
and complicated contrivances. This was quite a 
mistake. There Avas nothing profound about Mr. 
Rigby ; and his intellect was totally incapable of 
devising or sustaining an intricate or continuous 
scheme. He was, in short, a man who neither 
felt nor thought; but who possessed, in a very 
remarkable degree, a restless instinct for adroit 
baseness. On the present occasion, he got into 
his carriage, and drove at the utmost speed from 
Windsor to the Foreign Office. The Secretary 
of State was engaged Avhen he arrived ; but Mr. 
Rigby would listen to no difficulties. He rushed 
up-stairs, flung open the door, and with agitated 
countenance, and eyes suffused with tears, threw 
himself into the arms of the astonished Mr. Can- 
ning. 

“ All is right,” exclaimed the devoted Rigby, 
in broken tones; “I have convinced the King 
that the First Minister must be in the House of 
Commons. No one knows it but myself ; but it 
is certain.” 

We have seen that, at an early period of his 
career, Mr. Peel withdrew from official life. His 
course had been one of unbroken prosperity ; the 
hero of the University had become the favorite 
of the House of Commons. His retreat, there- 
fore, was not prompted by chagrin. Nor need it 
have been suggested by a calculating ambition, 
for the ordinary course of events was fast bear- 
ing to him all to which man could aspire. One 
might rather suppose, that he had already gained 
sufficient experience, perhaps in his Irish Secreta- 
ryship, to make him pause in that career of su- 
perficial success which education and custom had 
hitherto chalked out for him, rather than the cre- 
ative energies of his OAvn mind. A thoughtful 
intellect may have already detected elements in 
our social system which required a finer observa- 
tion, and a more unbroken study, than the gyves 


and trammels of office would permit. He may 
have discovered that the representation of the 
University, looked upon in those days as the blue 
ribbon of the House of Commons, was a sufficient 
fetter Avithout unnecessarily adding to its re- 
straint. He may have wished to reserve himself 
for a happier occasion, and a more progressive 
period. He may have felt the strong necessity 
of arresting himself in his rapid career of felici- 
tous routine, to survey his position in calmness, 
and to comprehend the stirring age that was ap- 
proaching. 

For that, he could not but be conscious that 
the education which he had consummated, how- 
ever ornate and refined, Avas not sufficient. That 
age of economical statesmanship which Lord Shel- 
burne had predicted in 178Y, when he demolished, 
in the House of Lords, Bishop Watson and the 
Balance of Trade, — which Mr. Pitt had compre- 
hended, and for which he was preparing the na- 
tion Avhen the French Revolution diverted the 
public mind into a stronger and more turbulent 
current, — was again impending, Avhile the inter- 
vening history of the country had been prolific 
in events Avhich had aggravated the necessity of 
investigating the sources of theAvealth of nations. 
The time had arrived when parliamentary pre- 
eminence could no longer be achieved or main- 
tained by gorgeous abstractions borrowed from 
Burke, or shallow systems purloined from De 
Lolme, adorned with Horatian points, or varied 
with Virgilian passages. It was to be an age of 
abstruse disquisition, that required a compact and 
sinewy intellect, nurtured in a class of learning 
not yet honored in colleges, and which might 
arrive at conclusions conflicting with predominant 
prejudices. 

Adopting this view of the position of Mr. Peel, 
strengthened as it is by his early Avithdrawal for 
aAvhile from the direction of public affairs, it may 
not only be a charitable, but a true estimate of 
the motives which influenced him in his conduct 
toward Mr. Canning, to conclude that he was not 
guided in that transaction by the disingenuous ri- 
valry usually imputed to him. His statement in 
Parliament of the determining circumstances of 
his conduct, coupled with his subsequent and al- 
most 'mmediate policy, may perhaps always leave 
this a painful and ambiguous passage in his ca- 
reer ; but in passing judgment on public men, it 
behoves us ever to take large and extended views 
of their conduct ; and previous incidents xvill often 
satisfactorily explain subsequent events, Avhich, 
without their illustrating aid, are involved in mis- 
apprehension or mystery. 

It would seem, therefore, that Sir Robert Peel, 
from an early period, meditated his emancipation 
from the political confederacy in which he was im- 
plicated, and that he has been continually baffled 
in this project. He broke loose from Lord Liver- 
pool ; he retired from Mr. Canning. Forced again 
into becoming the subordinate leader of the weak- 
est government in parliamentary annals, he believed 
he had at length achieved his emancipation, when 
he declared to his late colleagues, after the over- 
throw of 1830, that he would never again accept 
a secondary position in office. But the Duke of 
Wellington was too old a tactician to lose so 
valuable an ally. So his Grace declared after the 
Reform Bill was passed, as its inevitable result, 


BEAUMANOIR. 


31 


that thenceforth the Prime Minister must be a 
member of the House of Commons ; and this 
aphorism, cited as usual by the Duke’s parasites 
as demonstration of his supreme sagacity, was a 
graceful mode of resigning the pre-eminence 
which had been productive of such great party 
disasters. It is remarkable that the party who 
devised and passed the Reform Bill, and who, in 
consequence, governed the nation for ten years, 
never once had their Prime Minister in the House 
of Commons; but that does not signify; the 
Duke’s maxim is still quoted as an oracle almost 
equal in prescience to his famous query, “ How 
is the King’s government to be carried on ? ” — a 
question to which his Grace by this time has con- 
trived to give a tolerably practical answer. 

Sir Robert Peel, who had escaped from Lord 
Liverpool, escaped from Mr. Canning, escaped 
even from the Duke of Wellington in 1832, was 
at length caught in 1834 ; the victim of ceaseless 
intriguers, who neither comprehended his position, 
nor that of their country. 


CHAPTER II. 

Beaumanoir was one of those Palladian pala- 
ces, vast and ornate, such as the genius of Kent 
and Campbell delighted in at the begining of the 
eighteenth century. Placed on a noble eleva- 
tion, yet screened from the northern blast, its 
sumptuous front, connected with its far-spreading 
wings by Corinthian colonnades, was the boast 
and pride of the midland counties. The sur- 
rounding gardens, equalling in extent the size of 
ordinary parks, were crowded with temples dedi- 
cated to abstiact virtues and to departed friends. 
Occasionally a triumphal arch celebrated a gen- 
eral whom the family still esteemed a hero ; and 
sometimes a votive column commemorated the 
great statesman who had advanced the family a 
step in the peerage. Beyond the limits of this 
pleasance the hart and hind wandered in a wilder- 
ness abounding in ferny coverts and green and 
stately trees. 

The noble proprietor of this demesne had many 
of the virtues of his class ; a few of their fr’frngs. 
He had that public spirit which became Lis sta- 
tion. He was not one of those who avoided the 
exertions and the sacrifices which should be in- 
separable from high positioi, by the hollow pre- 
text of a taste for privacy, and a devotion to 
domestic joys. He was munificent, tender and 
bounteous to the poor, and loved a flowing hos- 
pitality. A keen sportsman, he was not untinc- 
tured by letters, and had indeed a cultivated taste 
for the fine arts. Though an ardent politician, he 
was tolerant to adverse opinions, and full of 
amenity to his opponents. A firm supporter of 
the corn-laws, he never refused a lease. Notwith- 
standing there ran through his whole demeanor 
and the habit of his mind, a vein of native sim- 
plicity that was full of charm, his manner was 
finished. He never offended any one’s self-love. 
His good breeding, indeed, sprang from the only 
sure source of gentle manners — a kind heart. To 
have pained others would have pained himself. 
Perhaps, too, this noble sympathy may have been 
in some degree promoted by the ancient blood in 


his veins, an accident of lineage rather rare with 
the English nobility. One could hardly praise 
him for the strong affections that bound him to 
his hearth, for fortune had given him the most 
pleasing family in the world ; but, above all, a 
peerless wife. 

The Duchess was one of those women who 
are the delight of existence. She was sprung 
from a house not inferior to that with which she 
had blended, and was gifted with that rare beauty 
which time ever spares, so that she seemed now 
only the elder sister of her own beautiful daugh- 
ters. She, too, was distinguished by that perfect 
good breeding which is the result of nature and 
not of education ; for it may be found in a cot- 
tage, and may be missed in a palace. ’Tis a ge- 
nial regard for the feelings of others that springs 
from an absence of selfishness. The Duchess, 
indeed, was in every sense a fine lady ; her man- 
ners were refined and full of dignity ; but nothing 
in the world could have induced her to appear 
bored when another was addressing or attempt- 
ing to amuse her. She was not one of those vul- 
gar fine ladies who meet you one day with a va- 
cant stare, as if unconscious of your existence, 
and address you on another in a tone of imperti- 
nent familiarity. Her temper, perhaps, was some- 
what quick, which made this consideration for 
the feelings of others still more admirable, for it 
was the result of a strict moral discipline acting 
on a good heart. Although the best of wives 
and mothers, she had some charity for her neigh- 
bors. Needing herself no indulgence, she could 
be indulgent ; and would by no means favor that 
strait-laced morality that would constrain the in- 
nocent play of the social body. She was accom- 
plished, well read, and had a lively fancy. Add 
to this that sunbeam of a happy home, a gay and 
cheerful spirit in its mistress, and one might form 
some faint idea of this gracious personage. 

The eldest son of this house was now on the 
Continent ; of his two younger brothers, one was 
with his regiment, and the other was Coningsby’s 
friend at Eton, our Henry Sydney. The two el- 
dest daughters had just married, on the same day, 
and at the same altar ; and the remaining one, 
Thei’esa, was still a child. 

The Duke had occupied a chief post in the 
Household under the late administration, and his 
present guests chiefly consisted of his former col- 
leagues in office. There were several members of 
the late cabinet, several members for his Grace’s 
late boroughs, looking very much like martyrs, 
full of suffering and of hope. Mr. Tadpole and 
Mr. Taper were also there; they too -had lost 
their seats since 183%; but being men of busi- 
ness, and accustomed from early life to look 
about them, they had already commenced the 
combinations which on a future occasion were to 
bear them back to the assembly where they were 
so missed. 

Taper had his eye on a small constituency 
which had escaped the fatal schedules, and where 
he had what they called a “ connection ; ” that is 
to say, a section of the suffrages who had a lively 
remembrance of Treasury favors once bestowed 
by Mr. Taper, and who had not been so liberally 
dealt with by the existing powers. This connec- 
tion of Taper was in time to leaven the whole 
mass of the constituent body, and make it rise in 


32 


CONINGSBY. 


fall rebellion against its present liberal represent- 
ative, who, being one of a majority of three hun- 
dred, could get nothing when he called at White- 
hall or Downing Street. 

Tadpole, on the contrary, who was of a larger 
grasp of mind than Taper, with more of imagina- 
tion and device, but not so safe a man, was 
coquetting with a manufacturing town and a large 
constituency, where he was to succeed by the aid 
of the Wesleyans, of which pious body he had 
suddenly become a fervent admirer. The great 
Mr. Rigby, too, was a guest out of Parliament, 
nor caring to be in ; but hearing that his friends 
had some hopes, he thought he would just come 
down to dash them. 

The political grapes were sour for Mr. Rigby ; 
a prophet of evil, he preached only mortification 
and repentance and despair to his late colleagues. 
It was the only satisfaction left Mr. Rigby, except 
assuring the Duke that the finest pictures in his 
gallery were copies, and recommending him to 
pull down Beaumanoir, and rebuild it on a de- 
sign with which Mr. Rigby would furnish him. 

The battue and the banquet were over ; the 
ladies had withdrawn ; and the butler placed a 
fresh bottle of claret on the table. 

“ And you really think you could give us a 
majority, Tadpole?” said the Duke. 

Mr. Tadpole, with some ceremony, took a 
memorandum-book out of his pocket, amid the 
smiles and the faint well-bred merriment of his 
friends. 

“ Tadpole is nothing without his book,” whis- 
pered Lord Fitz-Booby. 

“It is here,” said Mr. Tadpole, emphatically 
patting his volume, “ a clear working majority of 
twenty-two.” 

“Near sailing that!” cried the Duke. 

“ A far better majority than the present 
Government have,” said Mr. Tadpole. 

“ There is nothing like a good small major- 
ity,” said Mr. Taper, “ and a good registration.” 

“ Ay ! register, register, register ! ” said the 
Duke. “ Those were immortal words ! ” 

“ I can tell your Grace three far better ones,” 
said Mr. Tadpole, with a self-complacent air. 
“ Object, object, object !” 

“You may register, and you may object,” 
said Mr. Rigby, “ but you will never get rid of 
Schedule A and Schedule B.” 

“ But who could have supposed two years ago 
that affairs would be in their present position ? ” 
said Mr. Taper, deferentially. 

“ I foretold it,” said Mr. Rigby. “ Every one 
knows that no government now can last twelve 
months.” 

“ We may make fresh boroughs,” said Taper. 
“We hove reduced Shabbyton at the last regis- 
tration under three hundred.” 

“ And the Wesleyans ! ” said Tadpole. “ We 
never counted on the Wesleyans !*’ 

“I am told these Wesleyans are really a very 
respectable body,” said Lord Fitz-Booby. “ I 
believe there is no very material difference be- 
tween their tenets and those of the Establishment. 
I never heard of them much till lately. We have 
too long confounded them with the mass of Dis- 
senters, but their conduct at several of the latter 
elections proves that they are far from being un- 
reasonable and disloyal individuals. When we 


come in, something should be done for the Wes- 
leyans, eh, Rigby ? ” 

“ All that your Lordship can do for the Wes- 
leyans is what they will very shortly do for them- 
selves — appropriate a portion of the Church Rev- 
enues to their own use.” 

“Nay, nay,” said Mr. Tadpole, with a chuckle, 
“ I don’t think we shall find the Church attacked 
again in a hurry. I only wish they would try ! 
A good Church cry before a registration,” he 
continued, rubbing his hands ; “ eh, my Loi’d, I 
think that would do.” 

“ But how are we to turn them out ? ” said 
the Duke. 

“ Ah ! ” said Mr. Taper, “ that is a great ques- 
tion.” 

“ What do you think of a repeal of the Malt 
Tax ? ” said Lord Fitz-Booby. “ They have been 

trying it on in shire, and I am told it goes 

down very well.” 

“ No repeal of any tax,” said Taper, sincerely 
shocked, and shaking his head ; “ and the Malt 
Tax of all others. I am all against that.” • 

“ It is a very good cry though, if there be no 
other,” said Tadpole. 

“ I am all for a religious cry,” said Taper. 
“ It means nothing, and if successful, does not 
interfere with business when we are in.” 

“ You will have religious cries enough in a 
short time,” said Mr. Rigby, rather wearied of 
any one speaking but himself, and thereat he 
commenced a discourse, which was, in fact, one 
of his “ slashing ” articles in petto on Church 
Reform, and which abounded in parallels between 
the present affairs and those of the reign of 
Charles I. Tadpole, who did not pretend to know 
any thing but the state of the registration, and 
Taper, whose political reading was confined to an 
intimate acquaintance with the Red Book and 
Beatson’s Political Index, which he could repeat 
backwards, were silenced. The Duke, who was 
well instructed and liked to be talked to, sipped 
his claret, and was rather amused by Rigby’s 
lecture, particularly by one or two statements 
characterized by Rigby’s happy audacity, but 
which the Duke w r as too indolent to question. 
Lord Fitz-Booby listened with his mouth open, 
but rather bored. At length, when there was a 
momentary pause, he said : 

“ In my time, the regular thing was to move 
an amendment on the address.” 

“ Quite out of thie question,” exclaimed Tad- 
pole, with a scoff. 

“ Entirely given up,” said Taper, with a sneer. 

“ If you will drink no more claret, we will go 
and hear some music,” said the Duke. 


CHAPTER III. 

A breakfast at Beaumanoir was a meal of 
some ceremony. Every guest was expected to 
attend, and at a somewhat early hour. Their 
host and hostess set them the example of punctu- 
ality. ’Tis an old form rigidly adhered to in some 
great houses, but, it must be confessed, does not 
contrast very agreeably with the easier arrange- 
ments of establishments of less pretension and 
of more modern order. 


DEATH OF LORD SPENCER. 


33 


The morning after the dinner to which we 
have been recently introduced, there was one in- 
dividual absent from the breakfast-table whose 
non-appearance could scarcely be passed over 
without notice ; and several inquired with some 
anxiety, whether their host were indisposed, 

“The Duke has received some letters from 
London which detained him,” replied the Duch- 
ess. “ He will join us.” 

“Your Grace will be glad to hear that your 
son Henry is very well,” said Mr. Rigby ; “ I 
heard of him this morning. Harry Coningsby 
enclosed me a letter for his grandfather, and tells 
me that he and Henry Sydney had just had a cap- 
ital run with the King’s hounds.” 

“ It is three years since we have seen Mr. 
Coningsby,” said the Duchess. “ Once he was 
often here. He was a great favorite of mine. I 
hardly ever knew a more interesting boy.” 

“ Yes, I have done a great deal for him,” said 
Mr. Rigby. “ Lord Monmouth is fond of him, 
and wishes that he should make a figure ; but 
how any one is to distinguish himself now, I am 
really at a loss to comprehend.” 

“ But are affairs so very bad ? ” said the 
Duchess, smiling. “ I thought that we were all 
regaining our good sense and good temper.” 

“ I believe all the good sense and all the good 
temper in England are concentrated in your 
Grace,” said Mr. Rigby, gallantly. 

“ I should be sorry to be such a monopolist. 
But Lord Fitz-Booby was giving me last night 
quite a glowing report of Mr. Tadpole’s prospects 
for the nation. We were all to have our own 
again ; and Percy to carry the county.” 

“ My dear Madam, before twelve months are 
past, there will not be a county in England. Why 
should there be ? If boroughs are to be dis- 
franchised, why should not counties be de- 
stroyed ? ” 

At this moment the Duke entered, apparently 
agitated. He bowed to his guests, and apolo- 
gised for his unusual absence. “ The truth is,” 
he continued, “ I have just received a very im- 
portant despatch. An event has occurred which 
may materially affect affairs. Lord Spencer is 
dead ! ” 

A thunderbolt in a summer sky, as Sir Wil- 
liam Temple says, could not have produced a 
greater sensation. The business of the repast 
ceased in a moment. The knives and forks were 
suddenly silent. All was still. 

“ It is an immense event,” said Tadpole. 

“ I don’t see my way,” said Taper. 

“ When did he die ? ” said Lord Fitz-Booby. 

“ I don’t believe it,” said Mr. Rigby. 

“ They have got their man ready,” said Tad- 
pole. 

“ It is impossible to say what will happen,” 
said Taper. 

“Now is the time for an amendment on the 
address,” said Fitz-Booby. 

“ There are two reasons which convince me 
that Lord Spencer is not dead,” said Mr. Rigby. 

“ I fear there is no doubt of it,” said the Duke, 
shaking his head. 

“ Lord Althorp was the only man who could 
keep them together,” said Lord Fitz-Booby. 

“ On the contrary,” said Tadpole. “ If I be 
right in my man, and I have no doubt of it, you 
3 


will have a radical programme, and they will be 
stronger than ever.” 

“ Do you think they can get the steam up 
again ? ” said Taper, musingly. 

“ They will bid high,” replied Tadpole. 
“ Nothing could be more unfortunate than this 
death. Things were going on so well and so 
quietly ! The Wesleyans almost with us ! ” 

“ And Shabbyton too ! ” mournfully exclaimed 
Taper. “ Another registration and quiet times, 
and I could have reduced the constituency to two 
hundred and fifty.” 

“ If Lord Spencer had died on the 10th,” said 
Rigby, “ it must have been known to Henry 
Rivers. And I have a letter from Henry Rivers 
by this post. Now, Althorp is in Northampton- 
shire, mark that, and Northampton is a coun- 
ty—” 

“ My dear Rigby,” said the Duke, “ pardon 
me for interrupting you. Unhappily, there is no 
doubt Lord Spencer is dead, for I am one of his 
executors.” 

This announcement silenced even Mr. Rigby, 
and the conversation now entirely merged in 
speculations on what would occur. Numerous 
were the conjectures hazarded, but the prevailing 
impression was, that this unforeseen event might 
embarrass those secret expectations of Court suc- 
cor in which a certain section of the party had 
for some time reason to indulge. 

From the moment, however, of the announce- 
ment of Lord Spencer’s death, a change might be 
visibly observed in the tone of the party at 
Beaumanoir. They became silent, moody, and 
restless. There seemed a general, though not 
avowed, conviction that a crisis of some kind or 
other was at hand. The post, too, brought let- 
ters every day from town teeming with fanciful 
speculations, and occasionally mysterious hopes. 

“ I kept this cover for Peel,” said the Duke 
pensively, as he loaded his gun on the morning of 
the 14th. “ Do you know, I was always against 

his going to Rome.” 

“ It is very odd,” said Tadpole, “ but I was 
thinking of the very same thing.” 

“ It will be fifteen years before England will 
see a Tory government,” said Mr. Rigby, drawing 
his ramrod, “ and then it will only last five 
months.” 

“Melbourne, Althorp, and Durham, all in the 
Lords,” said Taper. “ Three leaders ! They must 
quarrel.” 

“ If Durham come in, mark me, he will dis- 
solve on Household Suffrage and the Ballot,” 
said Tadpole. 

“ Not nearly so good a cry as Church,” re- 
plied Taper. 

“ With the Malt Tax,” said Tadpole. “ Church, 
without the Malt Tax, will not do against House- 
hold suffrage and Ballot.” 

“ Malt Tax is madness,” said Taper. “ A 
good farmer’s friend cry without Malt Tax would 
work just as well.” 

“ They will never dissolve,” said the Duke. 
“ They are so strong.” 

“ They cannot go on with three hundred ma- 
jority,” said Taper. “ Forty is as much as can 
be managed with open constituencies.” 

“ If he had only gone to Paris instead of 
Rome ! ” said the Duke. 


34 


CONINGSBY. 


“ Yes,” said Mr. Rigby, “ I could have writ- 
ten to him then by every post, and undeceived 
him as to his position.” 

“ After all, he is the only man,” said the 
Duke ; “ and I really believe the country thinks 
so.” 

“Pray, what is the country?” inquired Mr. 
Rigby. “ The country is nothing ; it is the con- 
stituency you have to deal with.” 

“ And to manage them you must have a good 
cry,” said Taper. “ All now depends upon a good 
cry.” ** 

“ So much for the science of politics,” said 
the Duke, bringing down a pheasant. “ How 
Peel would have enjoyed this cover ! ” 

“ He will have plenty of time for sport during 
his life,” said Mr. Rigby. 

On the evening of the 15th of November, a 
despatch arrived at Beaumanoir, informing his 
Grace that the King had dismissed the Whig 
Ministry, and sent for the Duke of Wellington. 
Thus the first agitating suspense was over ; to be 
succeeded, however, by expectation still more 
anxious. It was remarkable that every individual 
suddenly found that he had particular business 
in London which could not be neglected. The 
Duke very properly pleaded his executorial duties^ 
but begged his guests on no account to be dis- 
turbed by his inevitable absence. Lord Fitz- 
Booby had just received a letter from his daugh- 
ter, who was extremely indisposed, at Brighton, 
and he was most anxious to reach her. Tadpole 
had to receive deputations from Wesleyans, and 
well-registered boroughs anxious to receive well- 
principled candidates. Taper was off to get the 
first job at the contingent Treasury, in favor of 
the Borough of Shabbyton. Mr. Rigby alone was 
silent; but he quietly ordered a post-chaise at 
daybreak, and long before his fellow-guests were 
roused from their slumbers, he was half-way to 
London, ready to give advice either at the pavilion, 
or at Apsley House. 


CHAPTER IY. 

Although it is far from improbable that, had 
Sir Robert PeeL been in England in the autumn 
of 1834, the Whig government would not have 
been dismissed ; nevertheless, whatever may now 
be the opinion of the policy of that measure; 
whether it be looked on as a premature move- 
ment which necessarily led to the compact reor- 
ganization of the Liberal party, or as a great 
stroke of State, which, by securing at all events a 
dissolution of the Parliament of 1832, restored 
the healthy balance of parties in the Legislature — 
questions into which we do not now wish to enter 
— it must be generally admitted, that the conduct 
of every individual eminently concerned in that 
great historical transaction was characterized by 
the rarest and most admirable quality of public 
life — moral courage. The Sovereign who dis- 
missed a, Ministry apparently supported by an 
overwhelming majority in the Parliament and the 
nation, and called to his councils the absent chief 
of a parliamentary section, scarcely numbering at 
that moment one hundred and fort) 7 individuals, 
and of a party in the country supposed to be ut- I 


terly discomfited by a recent revolution ; the two 
ministers who in this absence provisionally ad- 
ministered the affairs of the kingdom in the teeth 
of an enraged and unscrupulous Opposition, and 
perhaps themselves not sustained by a profound 
conviction, that the arrival of their expected 
leader would convert their provisional into a per- 
manent position ; above all, the statesman who 
accepted the great charge at a time and under 
circumstances which marred probably the deep 
projects of his own prescient sagacity and matur- 
ing ambition; were all men gifted with a high 
spirit of enterprise, and animated by that active 
fortitude which is the soul of free governments. 

It was a lively season, that winter of 1834 ! 
What hopes, what fears, and what bets ! From 
the day on which Mr. Hudson was to arrive at 
Rome, to the election of the Speaker, not a con- 
tingency that was not the subject of a wager ! 
The people sprang up like mushrooms ; town sud- 
denly became full. Everybody who had been in 
office, and everybody who wished to be in office ; 
everybody who had ever had anything, and every- 
body who ever expected to have anything — were 
alike visible. All, of course, by mere accident ; 
one might meet the same men regularly every 
day for a month, who were only “ passing through 
town.” 

Now was the time for men to come forward 
who had never despaired of their country. True, 
they had voted for the Reform Bill, but that was 
to prevent a revolution. And now they were 
quite ready to vote against the Reform Bill, but 
this was to prevent a dissolution. These are the 
true patriots, whose confidence in the good sense 
of their countrymen, and in their own selfishness, 
is about equal. Ia the meantime, the hundred 
and forty threw a grim glance on the numerous 
waiters on Providence, and amiable trimmers, 
who affectionately inquired every day when news 
might be expected of Sir Robert. Though too 
weak to form a government, and having contrib- 
uted in no wise by their exertions to the fall of 
the late, the cohort of Parliamentary Tories felt 
all the alarm of men who have accidentally stum- 
bled on some treasure-trove, at the suspicious 
sympathy of new allies. But, after all, who were 
to form the government, and what was the gov- 
ernment to be? Was it to be a Tory govern- 
ment, or an Enlightened-Spirit-of-the-Age, Liber- 
al-Moderate-Reform government; was it to be a 
government of high philosophy or of low prac- 
tice ; of principle or of expediency ; of great 
measures or of little men? A government of 
statesmen or of clerks ? Of Humbug or Hum- 
drum ? Great questions these, but unfortunately 
there was nobody to answer them. They tried 
the Duke ; but nothing could be pumpedout of 
him. All that he knew, which he told in his curt, 
husky manner, was, that he had to carry on the 
King’s government. As for his solitary colleague, 
he listened and smiled, and then in his musical 
voice asked them questions in return, which is 
the best possible mode of avoiding awkward in- 
quiries. It was very unfair this ; for no one knew 
what tone to take ; whether they should go down 
to their public dinners and denounce the Reform 
Act or praise it ; whether the Church was to be 
re-modelled or only admonished ; whether Ireland 
was to be conquered or conciliated. 


MR. ORMSBY’S POLITICAL DINNER. 


35 


“ This can’t go on much longer,” said Taper 
to Tadpole, as they reviewed together their elec- 
tioneering correspondence on the 1st of Decem- 
ber ; “ we have no cry.” 

“ He is half-way by this time,” said Tadpole ; 
“send an extract from a private letter to the 
Standard, dated Augsburg, and say he will be 
here in four days.” 

At last he came ; the great man in a great 
position, summoned from Rome to govern Eng- 
land. The very day that he arrived he had his 
audience with the King. 

It was two days after this audience ; the town, 
though November, in a state of excitement ; clubs 
crowded, not only morning rooms, but halls and 
staircases swarming with members eager to give 
and to receive rumors equally vain ; streets lined 
with cabs and chariots, grooms and horses ; it 
was two days after this audience that Mr. Orms- 
by, celebrated for his political dinners, gave one 
to a numerous party. Indeed his saloons to-day, 
during the half-hour of gathering which precedes 
dinner, offered in the various groups, the anxious 
countenances, the inquiring voices, and the mys- 
terious whispers, rather the character of an Ex- 
change or Bourse than the tone of a festive so- 
ciety. 

Here might be marked a murmuring knot of 
grey-headed privy councillors, who had held fat 
offices under Perceval and Liverpool, and who 
looked back to the Reform Act as to a hideous 
dream ; there some middle-aged aspirants might 
be observed who had lost their seats in the con- 
vulsions, but who flattered themselves they had 
done something for the party in the interval, by 
spending nothing except their breath in fighting 
hopeless boroughs, and occasionally publishing a 
pamphlet, which really produced less effect than 
chalking the walls. Light as air, and proud as a 
young peacock, tripped on his toes a young Tory, 
who had contrived to keep his seat in a Parlia- 
ment where he had done nothing, but who 
thought an Under Secretaryship was now secure, 
particularly as he was the son of a noble Lord 
who had also in a public capacity plundered and 
blundered in the good old time. The true politi- 
cal adventurer, who with dull desperation had 
stuck at nothing, had never neglected a treasury 
note, had been present at every division, never 
spoke when he was asked to be silent, and was 
always ready on any subject when they wanted 
him to open his mouth ; w ho had treated his 
leaders with servility even behind their backs, 
and was happy for the day if a future Secretary 
of the Treasury bowed to him ; who had not only 
discountenanced discontent in the party, but had 
regularly reported in strict confidence every in- 
stance of insubordination which came to his 
knowledge^ might there too be detected under 
all the agonies of the crisis; just beginning to 
feel the dread misgiving, whether being a slave 
and a sneak were sufficient qualifications for 
office, without family or connection. Poor fel- 
low ! half the industry he had wasted on his 
cheerless craft might have made his fortune in 
some decent trade ! 

In dazzling contrast with these throes of low 
ambition, were some brilliant personages who 
had just scampered up from Melton, thinking it 
probable that Sir Robert might want some moral 


lords of the bed-chamber. Whatever may have 
been their private fears or feelings, all however 
seemed smiling and significant ; as if they knew 
something if they chose to tell it, and that some- 
thing very much to their own satisfaction. The 
only grave countenance that was occasionally 
ushered into the room belonged to some indi- 
vidual whose destiny was not in doubt, and who 
was already practising the official air that was in 
future to repress the familiarity of his former 
fellow-strugglers. 

“ Do you hear anything ? ” said a great noble, 
who wanted something in the general scramble, 
but what he knew not; only he had a vague 
feeling he ought to have something, having made 
such great sacrifices. 

“ There is a report that Clifford is to be Sec- 
retary to the Board of Control,” said Mr. Earwig, 
whose whole soul was in this subaltern arrange- 
ment, of which the Minister of course had not 
even thought ; “ but I cannot trace it to any au- 
thority.” 

“ 1 wonder who will be their Master of the 
Horse,” said the great noble, loving gossip though 
he despised the gossiper. 

“ Clifford has done nothing for the party,” 
said Mr. Earwig. 

“ I dare say Rambrooke will have the Buck- 
hounds,” said the great noble, musingly. 

“ Your Lordship has not heard Clifford’s name 
mentioned ? ” continued Mr. Earwig. 

“ I should think they had not come to that 
sort of thing,” said the great noble, with ill-dis- 
guised contempt. “The first thing after the 
Cabinet is formed is the Household : the things 
you talk of are done last ; ” and he turned upon 
his heel, and met the imperturbable countenance 
and clear sarcastic eye of Lord Eskdale. 

“ You have not heard anything? ” asked the 
great noble of his brother patrician. 

“ Yes, a great deal since I have been in this 
room ; but unfortunately it is all untrue.” 

“There is a report that Rambrooke is to have 
the Buckhounds ; but I cannot trace it to any 
authority.” 

“ Pooh ! ” said Lord Eskdale. 

“ I don’t see that Rambrooke should have the 
Buckhounds any more than anybody else. What 
sacrifice has he made ? ” 

“ Past sacrifices are nothing,” said Lord Esk- 
dale. “Present sacrifices are the thing we 
want : — men who will sacrifice their principles, 
and join us.” 

“ You have not heard Rambrooke’s name 
mentioned ? ” 

“ When a Minister has no Cabinet, and only 
one hundred and forty supporters in the House 
of Commons, he has something else to think of 
than places at Court,” said Lord Eskdale, as he 
slowly turned away to ask Lucian Gay whether it 
were true that Jenny Colon was coming over. 

Shortly after this, Henry Sydney’s father, who 
dined with Mr. Orrasby, drew Lord Eskdale into 
a window, and said in an under tone : 

“ So there is to be a kind of programme : 
something is to be written.” 

“Well, we want a cue,” said Lord Eskdale. 
“ I heard of this last night : Rigby has written 
something.” 

The Duke shook his head. 


36 


CONINGSBY. 


“ No ; Peel means to do it liimself.” 

But at this moment Mr. Ormsby begged his 
Grace to lead them to dinner. 

“ Something is to be written.” It is curious 
to recall the vague terms in which the first pro- 
jection of documents, that are to exercise a vast 
influence on the course of affairs or the minds of 
nations, is often mentioned. This “ something 
to be written ” was written ; and speedily ; and 
has ever since been talked of. 

We believe we may venture to assume that at 
no period during the movements of 1834-5 did 
Sir Robert Peel ever believe in the success of his 
administration. Its mere failure could occasion 
him little dissatisfaction ; he was compensated 
for it by the noble opportunity afforded to him 
for the display of those great qualities, both 
moral and intellectual, which the swaddling- 
clothes of a routine prosperity had long repressed, 
but of which his opposition to the Reform Bill 
had given to the nation a significant intimation. 
The brief administration elevated him in public 
opinion, and even in the eye of Europe ; and it is 
probable that a much longer term of power would 
not have contributed more to his fame. 

The probable effect of the premature effort of 
his party on his future position as a Minister was, 
however, far from being so satisfactory. At the 
lowest ebb of his political fortunes, it cannot be 
doubted that Sir Robert Peel looked forward, 
perhaps through the vista of many years, to a 
period when the national mind, arrived by reflec- 
tion and experience at certain conclusions, would 
seek in him a powerful expositor of its convic- 
tions. Ilis time of life permitted him to be tran- 
quil in adversity, and to profit by its salutary 
uses. He would then have acceded to power as 
the representative of a Creed, instead of being 
the leader of a Confederacy, and he would have 
been supported by earnest and enduring enthu- 
siasm, instead of by that churlish sufferance which 
is the result of a supposed balance of advantages 
in his favor. This is the consequence of the tac- 
tics of those short-sighted intriguers, who per- 
sisted in looking upon a revolution as a mere 
party struggle ; and would not permit the mind 
of the nation to work through the inevitable 
phases that awaited it. In 1834, England, though 
frightened at the reality of Reform, still adhered 
to its phrases ; it was inclined, as practical Eng- 
land, to maintain existing institutions ; but, as 
theoretical England, it was suspicious that they 
were indefensible. 

No one had arisen either in Parliament, the 
Universities, or the Press, to lead the public mind 
to the investigation of principles ; and not to mis- 
take, in their reformations, the corruption of prac- 
tice for fundamental ideas. It was this per- 
plexed, ill-informed, jaded, shallow generation, 
repeating cries which they did not comprehend, 
and wearied with the endless ebullitions of their 
own barren conceit, that Sir Robert Peel was 
summoned to govern. It was from such ma- 
terials, ample in quantity, but in all spiritual 
qualities most deficient; with great numbers, 
largely acred, • consoled up to their chins, but 
without knowledge, genius, thought, truth, or 
faith, that Sir Robert Peel was to form a “ great 
Conservative party on a comprehensive basis.” 
That he did this like a dexterous politician, who 


can deny ? Whether he realized those prescient 
views of a great statesman in which he had doubt- 
less indulged, and in which, though still clogged 
by the leadership of 1834, he may yet find fame 
for himself and salvation for his country, is al- 
together another question. His difficult attempt 
was expressed in an address to his constituents, 
which now ranks among state papers. We shall 
attempt briefly to consider it with the impartiality 
of the future. 


CHAPTER Y. 

The Tamworth Manifesto of 1834 was an 
attempt to construct a party without principles ; 
its basis therefore was necessarily Latitudinarian- 
ism ; and its inevitable consequence has been 
Political Infidelity. 

At an epoch of political perplexity and social 
alarm, the confederation was convenient, and was 
calculated by aggregation to encourage the timid 
and confused. But when the perturbation was a 
little subsided, and men began to inquire why 
they were banded together, the difficulty of de- 
fining their purpose proved that the league, how- 
ever respectable, was not a party. The leaders 
indeed might profit by their eminent position to 
obtain power for their individual gratification, 
but it was impossible to secure their followers 
that which, after all, must be the great recom- 
pense of a political party, the putting in practice 
of their opinions ; for they had none. 

There was indeed a considerable shouting 
about what they called Conservative principles ; 
but the awkward question naturally arose, What 
will you conserve? The prerogatives of the 
Crown, provided they are not exercised ; the in- 
dependence of the House of Lords, provided it is 
not asserted ; the Ecclesiastical estate, provided 
it is regulated by a commission of laymen. Every- 
thing, in short, that is established, as long as it is 
a phrase and not a fact. 

In the meantime, while forms and phrases are 
religiously cherished in order to make the sem- 
blance of a creed, the rule of practice is to bend 
to the passion or combination of the hour. Con- ' 
servatism assumes in theory that every thing es- 
tablished should be maintained ; but adopts in 
practice that every thing that is established is 
indefensible. To reconcile this theory and this 
practice, they produce what they call “ the best 
bargain ; ” some arrangement which has no prin- 
ciple and no purpose; except to obtain a tem- 
porary lull of agitation, until the mind of the 
Conservatives, without a guide and without an 
aim, distracted, tempted, and bewildered, is pre- 
pared for another arrangement, equally states- 
manlike with the preceding one. 

Conservatism was an attempt to carry on af- 
fairs by substituting the fulfilment of the duties 
of office for the performance of the functions of 
government ; and to maintain this negative sys- 
tem by the mere influence of property, reputable 
private conduct, and what are called good con- 
nections. Conservatism discards Prescription, 
shrinks from Principle, disavows Progress ; hav- 
ing rejected all respect for Antiquity, it offers no 
redress for the Present, and makes no prepara- 


A CONFIDENTIAL TALK. 


tion for the Future. It is obvious that for a 
time, under favorable circumstances, such a con- 
federation might succeed ; but it is equally clear, 
that on the arrival of one of those critical conjunc- 
tures that will periodically occur in all states, 
and which such an unimpassioned system is even 
calculated ultimately to create, all power of re- 
sistance will be wanting: the barren curse of 
political infidelity will paralyse all action; and 
the Conservative Constitution will be discovered 
to be a Caput Mortuum. 


CHAPTER VI. 

In the meantime, after dinner, Tadpole and 
Taper, who were among the guests of Mr. Ormsby, 
withdrew to a distant sofa, out of earshot, and 
indulged in confidential talk. 

“ Such a strength in debate was never before 
found on a Treasury bench,” said Mr. Tadpole ; 
“ the other side will be dumbfounded.” 

“ And what do you put our numbers at now ? ” 
inquired Mr. Taper. 

“ Would you take fifty-five for our majority ? ” 
rejoined Mr. Tadpole. 

“ It is not so much the tail they have, as the 
excuse their junction will be for the moderate, 
sensible men to come over,” said Taper. “ Our 
friend Sir Everard for example, it would settle 
him.” 

“ He is a solemn impostor,” rejoined Mr. Tad- 
pole ; “but he is a baronet and a county mem- 
ber, and very much looked up to by the Wesley- 
ans. The other men, I know, have refused him a 
peerage.” 

“ And we might hold out judicious hopes,” 
said Taper. 

“No one can do that better than you,” said 
Tadpole. “ I am apt to say too much about those 
things.” 

“ I make it a rule never to open my mouth 
on such subjects,” said Taper. “ A nod or a wink 
will speak volumes. An affectionate pressure of 
the hand will sometimes do a great deal ; and I 
have promised many a peerage without commit- 
" ting myself, by an ingenious habit of deference 
which cannot be mistaken by the future noble.” 

“ I wonder what they will do with Rigby,” 
said Tadpole. 

“ He wants a good deal,” said Taper. 

“ I tell you what, Mr. Taper ; the time is gone 
bv when a Marquess of Monmouth was Letter A, 
No. 1.” 

“ Yery true, Mr. Tadpole. A wise man would 
do -well now to look to the great middle class, as 
I said the other day to the electors of Shabby- 
ton.” 

“I had sooner be supported by the Wesley- 
ans,” said Mr. Tadpole, “ than by all the mar- 
quesses in the peerage.” 

“ At the same time,” said Mr. Taper, “ Rigby 
is a considerable man. If we want a slashing 
article — ” 

“Pooh!” said Mr. Tadpole. “He is quite 
gone by. He takes three months for his slashing 
articles. Give me a man who can write a leader. 
Rigby can’t write a leader.” 

“ Yery few can,” said Mr. Taper. “ However, 


37 

I don’t think much of the press. Its power is 
gone by. They overdid it.” 

“There is Tom Chudleigh,” said Tadpole. 
“ What is he to have ? ” 

“ Nothing, I hope,” said Taper. “ I hate him. 
A coxcomb! cracking his jokes and laughing.at 
us.” 

“He has done a good deal for the party, 
though,” said Tadpole. “ That, to be sure, is 
only an additional reason for throwing him over, 
as he is too far committed to venture to oppose 
us. But I am afraid, from something that dropped 
to-day, that Sir Robert thinks he has claims.” 

“We must stop them,” said Taper, growing 
pale. “ Fellows like Chudleigh, w r hen they once 
get in, are always in one’3 way. I have no ob- 
jection to young noblemen being put forward, for 
they are preferred so rapidly, and then their 
fathers die, that in the long run they do not prac- 
tically interfere with us.” 

“ Well, his name was mentioned,” said Tad- 
pole. “ There is no concealing that.” 

“ I will speak to Earwig,” said Taper. “ He 
shall just drop into Sir Robert’s ear by chance, 
that Chudleigh used to quiz him in the smoking- 
room. Those little bits of information do a great 
deal of good.” 

“ Well, I leave him to you,” said Tadpole. “I 
am heartily with you in keeping out all fellows 
like Chudleigh. They are very well for opposi- 
tion ; but in office we don’t want wits.” 

“ And when shall we have the answer from 
Knowsley?” inquired Taper. “You anticipate 
no possible difficulty ? ” 

“ I tell you it is ‘ carte blanche,’ ” replied Tad- 
pole. “Four places in the Cabinet. Two secre- 
taryships at the least. Do you happen to know 
any gentlemen of your acquaintance, Mr. Taper, 
who refuses Secretaryships of State so easily, that 
you can for an instant doubt of the present ar- 
rangement ? ” 

“ I know none indeed,” said Mr. Taper, with a 
grim smile. 

“ The thing is done,” said Mr. Tadpole. 

“ And now for our cry,” said Taper. 

“ It is not a Cabinet for a good cry,” said 
Tadpole ; “ but then, on the other hand, it is a 
Cabinet that will sow dissension in the opposite 
ranks, and prevent them having a good cry.” 

“Ancient institutions and modern improve- 
ments, I suppose, Mr. Tadpole ? ” 

“ Ameliorations is the better word ; ameliora- 
tions. Nobody knows exactly what it means.” 

“We go strong on the Church?” said Mr. 
Taper. 

“ And no repeal on the Malt Tax ; you were 
right, Taper. It can’t be listened to for a mo- 
ment.” 

“ Something might be done with prerogative,” 
said Mr. Taper; “the King’s constitutional 
choice.” 

“ Not too much,” replied Mr. Tadpole. “ It is 
a raw time yet for prerogative.” 

“ Ah ! Tadpole,” said Mr. Taper, getting a 
little maudlin; “ I often think, if the time should 
ever come, when you and I should be joint Secre- 
taries of the Treasury !” 

“ We shall see, we shall see. All we have to 
do is to get into Parliament, work well together, 
and keep other men down.” 


38 


CONINGSBY. 


“ We will do our best,” said Taper. “A dis- 
solution you hold inevitable ? ” 

“ How are you and I to get into Parliament 
if there be not one ? We must make it inevi- 
table. I tell you what, Taper, the lists must 
prdve a dissolution inevitable. You understand 
roe ? If the present Parliament goes on, where 
shall we be ? We shall have new men cropping 
up every session.” 

“ True, terribly true,” said Mr. Taper. “ That 
we should ever live to see a Tory government 
again ! We have reason to be very thankful.” 

“ Hush ! ” said Mr. Tadpole. “ The time has 
gone by for Tory governments ; what the country 
requires is a sound Conservative government.” 

“ A sound Conservative government,” said 
Taper, musingly. “ I understand : Tory men 
and Whig measures.” 


CHAPTER YII. 

Amid the contentions of party, the fierce 
struggles of ambition, and the intricacies of polit- 
ical intrigue, let us not forget our Eton friends. 
During the period which elapsed from the failure 
of the Duke of Wellington to form a government 
in 1832, to the failure of Sir Robei’t Peel to carry 
on a government in 1835, the boys had entered, 
and advanced in youth. The ties of friendship 
which then united several of them had only been 
confirmed by continued companionship. Con- 
ingsby and Henry Sydney, and Buckhurst and 
Yere, were still bound together by entire sym- 
pathy, and by the affection of which sympathy is 
the only sure spring. But their intimacies had 
been increased by another familiar friend. There 
had risen up between Coningsby and Millbank 
mutual sentiments of deep and even ardent re- 
gard. Acquaintance had developed the superior 
qualities of Millbank. His thoughtful and inquir- 
ing mind, his inflexible integrity, his stern inde- 
pendence, and yet the engaging union of extreme 
tenderness of heart with all this strength of char- 
acter, had w T on the goodwill, and often excited 
the admiration, of Coningsby. Our hero, too, was 
gratified by the affectionate deference that was 
often shown to him by one who condescended to 
no other individual ; he was proud of having 
saved the life of a member of their community 
whom masters and boys alike considered ; and 
he ended by loving the being on whom he had 
conferred a great obligation. 

The friends of Coningsby, the sweet-tempered 
and intelligent Henry Sydney, the fiery and gen- 
erous Buckhurst, and the calm and sagacious 
Vere, had ever been favorably inclined to Mill- 
bank, and had they not been, the example of 
Coningsby w r ould soon have influenced them. 
He had obtained over his intimates the ascendant 
power, which is the destiny of genius. Nor was 
the submission of such spirits to be held cheap. 
Although they w r ere willing to take the color of 
their minds from him, they were in intellect and 
attainments, in personal accomplishments and 
general character, the leaders of the school ; an 
authority not to be w r on from five hundred high- 
spirited boys "without the possession of great 
virtues and great talents. 


As for the dominion of Coningsby himself, it 
was not limited to the immediate circle of his 
friends. He had become the hero of Eton ; the 
being of whose existence everybody was proud, 
and in whose career every boy took an interest. 
They talked of him, they quoted him, they imi- 
tated him. Fame and power are the objects of 
all men. Even their partial fruition is gained by 
very few ; and that too at the expense of social 
pleasure, health, conscience, life. Yet what pow- 
er of manhood in passionate intenseness, appeal- 
ing at the same time to the subject and the vo- 
tary, can rival that which is exercised by the 
idolised chieftain of a great public school ? What 
fame of after days equals the rapture of celebrity, 
that thrills the youthful poet, as in tones of rare 
emotion he recites his triumphant verses amid 
the devoted plaudits of the flower of England ? 
That’s fame, that’s power ; real, unquestioned, 
undoubted, catholic. Alas ! the school-boy when 
he becomes a man, finds that power, even fame, 
like everything else, is an affair of party. 

Coningsby liked very much to talk politics 
with Millbank. He heard things from Millbank 
which were new to him. Himself, as he sup- 
posed, a high Tory, which he was according to 
the revelation of the Rigbys, he was also suffi- 
ciently familiar with the hereditary tenets of his 
Whig friend, Lord Yere. Politics had as yet ap- 
peared to him a struggle whether the country was 
to be governed by Whig nobles or T,ory nobles ; 
and he thought it very unfortunate that be should 
probably have to enter life with his friends out 
of power, and his family boroughs destroyed. 
But in conversing with Millbank, he heard for 
the first time of influential classes in the country, 
who were not noble, and were yet determined to 
acquire power. And although Millbank’s views, 
which were of course merely caught up from his 
father, without the intervention of his own intelli- 
gence, were doubtless crude enough, and were oft- 
en very acutely canvassed and satisfactorily demol- 
ished by the clever prejudices of another school, 
which Coningsby had at command, still they 
were, unconsciously to the recipient, materials 
for thought, and insensibly provoked in his mind 
a spirit of inquiry into political questions, for 
which he had a predisposition. 

It may be said, indeed, that generally among 
the upper boys there might be observed at this 
time, at Eton, a reigning inclination for political 
discussion. The school truly had at all times 
been proud of its statesmen and its parliamentary 
heroes, but this was merely a superficial feeling 
in comparison with the sentiment which now first 
became prevalent. The great public- questions 
that were the consequence of the Reform of the 
House of Commons, had also agitated their 
young hearts. And especially the controversies 
that were now rife respecting the nature and 
character of ecclesiastical establishments, won- 
derfully addressed themselves to their excited in- 
telligence. They read their newspapers with a 
keen relish, canvassed debates, and criticised 
speeches ; and although in their debating society, 
wdiich had been instituted more than a quarter of 
a century, discussion on topics of the day was 
prohibited, still by fixing on periods of our his- 
tory when affairs were analogous to the present, 
I many^a youthful orator contrived very effectively 


CONSERVATIVE PRINCIPLES. 


39 


to reply to Lord John, or to refute the fallacies 
of his rival. 

As the political opinions predominant in the 
school were what in ordinary parlance are styled 
Tory, and indeed were far better entitled to that 
glorious epithet than the flimsy shifts which their 
fathers were professing in Parliament and the 
country ; the formation and the fall of Sir Robert 
Peel’s government had been watched by Etonians 
with great interest, and even excitement. The 
memorable efforts which the Minister himself 
made, supported only by the silent votes of his 
numerous adherents, and contending alone against 
the multiplied assaults of his able and deter- 
mined foes, with a spirit equal to the great occa- 
sion, and with resources of parliamentary contest 
which seemed to increase with every exigency ; 
these great and unsupported struggles alone were 
calculated to gain the sympathy of youthful and 
generous spirits. The assault on the revenues of 
the Church ; the subsequent crusade against the 
House of Lords ; the display of intellect and 
courage exhibited by Lord Lyndhurst in that as- 
sembly, when all seemed cowed and faint-heart- 
ed ; all these were incidents or personal traits 
apt to stir the passions, and create in breasts not 
yet schooled to repress emotion, a sentiment even 
of enthusiasm. It is the personal that interests 
mankind, that fires their imagination, and wins 
their hearts. A cause is a great abstraction, and 
fit only for students ; embodied only in a party, 
it stirs men to action ; but place at the head of 
that party a leader who can inspire enthusiasm, 
he commands the world. Divine faculty ! Rare 
and incomparable privilege ! A parliamentary 
leader who possesses it, doubles his majority ; 
and he who has it not, may shroud himself in ar- 
tificial reserve, and study with undignified arro- 
gance an awkward haughtiness, but he will never- 
theless be as far from controlling the spirit as 
from captivating the hearts of his sullen fol- 
lowers. 

However, notwithstanding this very general 
feeling at Eton, in 1835, in favor of “ Conserva- 
tive principles,” which was, in fact, nothing more 
than a confused and mingled sympathy with some 
great political truths, which were at the bottom 
of every boy’s heart, but nowhere else ; and with 
the personal achievements and distinction of the 
chieftains of the party ; — when all this hubbub 
had subsided, and retrospection, in the course of 
a year, had exercised its moralising influence 
over the more thoughtful part of the nation, in- 
quiries, at first very faint and unpretending, and 
confined indeed for a long period to very limited, 
though inquisitive, circles, began gently to circu- 
late — what Conservative principles were. 

These inquiries, urged indeed with a sort of 
hesitating scepticism, early reached Eton. They 
came no doubt from the Universities. They were 
of a character, how r ever, far too subtile and re- 
fined to exercise any immediate influence over 
the minds of youth. To pursue them required 
much previous knowledge and habitual thought. 
They w T ere not yet publicly prosecuted by any 
school of politicians, or any section of the pub- 
lic press. They had not a local habitation or' a 
name. They were whispered in conversation by 
a few. A tutor would speak of them in an eso- 
teric vein to a favorite pupil, in whose abilities he 


had confidence, and whose future position in life 
would afford him the opportunity of influencing 
opinion. Among others, they fell upon the ear 
of Coningsby. They were addressed to a mind 
which was prepared for such researches. 

There is a Library at Eton formed by the 
boys and governed by the boys; one of those 
free institutions which are the just pride of that 
noble school which shows the capacity of the 
boys for self-government, and which has sprung 
from the large freedom that has been wisely con- 
ceded them, the prudence of which confidence 
has been proved by their rarely abusing it. This 
Library has been formed by subscriptions of the 
present and still more by the gifts of old Etoni- 
ans. Among the honored names of these donors 
may be remarked those of the Grenvilles and 
Lord Wellesley ; nor should we forget George IV., 
who enriched the collection with a magnificent 
copy of the Delphin Classics. The institution is 
governed by six directors, the three first Col- 
legers and the three first Oppidans for the time 
being ; and the subscribers are limited to the 
one hundred senior members of the school. 

It is only to be regretted that the collection 
is not so extensive as it is interesting and choice. 
Perhaps its existence is not so generally known 
as it deserves to be. One would think that every 
Eton man would be as proud of his name being 
registered as a donor in the Catalogue of this 
Library, as a Venetian of his name being in- 
scribed in the Golden Book. Indeed an old Eto- 
nian, who still remembers with tenderness the 
sacred scene of youth, could scarcely do better 
than build a Gothic apartment for the reception 
of the collection. It cannot be doubted that the 
Provost and fellows would be gratified in granting 
a piece of ground for the purpose. 

Great were the obligations of Coningsby to 
this Eton Library. It introduced him to that his- 
toric lore, that accumulation of facts and inci- 
dents illustrative of political conduct, for which 
he had imbibed an early relish. His study was 
especially directed to the annals of his own coun- 
try, in which youth, and not youth alone, is fre- 
quently so deficient. This collection could af- 
ford him Clarendon and Burnet, and the authen- 
tic volumes of Coxe, these were rich materials 
for one anxious to be versed in the great parlia- 
mentary story of his country. During the last 
year of . his stay at Eton, when he had completed 
his eighteenth year, Coningsby led a more retired 
life than previously ; he read much, and pondered 
with all the pride of acquisition over his increas- 
ing knowledge. 

And now the hour has come when this youth 
is to be launched into a world more vast than that 
in which he has hitherto sojourned, yet for which 
this microcosm has been no ill preparation. He 
will become more wise ; will he remain as gener- 
ous ? His ambition may be as great ; will it be 
as noble ? What, indeed, is to be the future of 
this existence that is now to be sent forth into 
the great aggregate of entities ? Is it an ordina- 
ry organisation that will jostle among the crowd, 
and be jostled ? Is it a finer temperament, sus- 
ceptible of receiving the impressions and imbib- 
ing the inspirations of superior yet sympathising 
spirits ? Or is it a primordial and creative mind ; 
one that will say to his fellows, “ Behold, God 


40 


CONINGSBY. 


has given me thought ; I have discovered truth, 
and you shall believe ? ” 

The night before Coningsby left Eton, alone 
in his room, before he retired to rest, he opened 
the lattice and looked for the last time upon 
the landscape before him ; the stately keep 
of Windsor, the bowery meads of Eton, soft in 
the summer moon and still in the summer night. 
He gazed upon them ; his countenance had none 
of the exultation, that under such circumstances 
might have distinguished a more careless glance, 
eager for fancied emancipation and passionate 
foV a novel existence. Its expression was serious, 
even sad ; and he covered his brow with his 
hand. 


B O OK III. 

CHAPTER I. 

There are few things more full of delight and 
splendor, than to travel during the heat of a re- 
fulgent summer in the green district of some an- 
cient forest. 

In one of our midland counties there is a 
region of this character, to which, during a sea- 
son of peculiar lustre, we would introduce the 
reader. 

It was a fragment of one of those vast sylvan 
tracts wherein Norman kings once hunted, and 
Saxon outlaws plundered ; and although the 
plough had for centuries successfully invaded 
brake and bower, the relics retained all their 
original character of wildness and seclusion. 
Sometimes the green earth was thickly studded 
with groves of huge and vigorous oaks, inter- 
sected with those smooth and sunny glades, that 
seem as if they must be cut for dames and 
knights to saunter on. Then again the undula- 
ting ground spread on all sides, far as the eye 
could range, covered with copse and fern of im- 
mense growth. Anon you found yourself in a 
turfy wilderness, girt in apparently by dark woods. 
And when you had wound your way a little 
through this gloomy belt, the landscape, still 
strictly sylvan, would beautifully expand with 
every combination and variety of woodland ; 
while in its centre, the wild-fowl covered the 
waters of a lake, and the deer basked on the 
knolls that abounded on its banks. 

It was in the month of August, some six or 
seven years ago, that a traveller on foot, touched, 
as he emerged from the dark wood, by the beauty 
of this scene, threw himself under the shade of a 
spreading tree, and stretched his limbs on the 
turf for enjoyment rather than repose. The sky 
was deep-colored and without a cloud, save here 
and there a minute, sultry, burnished vapor, al- 
most as glossy as the heavens. Everything was 
still as it was bright ; all seemed brooding and 
basking ; the bee upon its wing was the only 
stirring sight, and its song the only sound. 

The traveller fell into a reverie. He was 
young, and therefore his musings were of the fu- 
ture. He had felt the pride of learning, so en- 
nobling to youth ; he was not a stranger to the 
stirring impulses of a high ambition, though the 


world to him was as yet only a world of books, 
and all that he knew of the schemes of statesmen 
and the passions of the people, were to be found 
in their annals. Often had his fitful fancy dwelt 
with fascination on visions of personal distinction, 
of future celebrity, perhaps even of enduring 
fame. But his dreams were of another color now. 
The surrounding scene, so fair, so still, and sweet 
— so abstracted from all the tumult of the world, 
its strife, its passions, and its cares — had fallen on 
his heart with its soft and subduing spirit — had 
fallen on a heart still pure and innocent — the 
heart of one who, notwithstanding all his high 
resolves and daring thoughts, was blessed with 
that tenderness of soul which is sometimes linked 
with an ardent imagination and a strong will. 
The traveller was an orphan — more than that, a 
solitary orphan. The sweet sedulousness of a 
mother’s love, a sister’s mystical affection, had 
not cultivated his early susceptibility. No soft 
pathos of expression had appealed to his childish 
ear. He was alone, among strangers calmly and 
coldly kind. It must indeed have been a truly 
gentle disposition that could have withstood such 
hard neglect. All that he knew of the power of 
the softer passions might be found in the fanciful 
and romantic annals of school-boy friendship. 

And those friends too, so fond, so sympathis- 
ing, so devoted, where were they now ? Already 
they were dispersed; the first great separation 
of life had been experienced ; the former school- 
boy had planted his foot on the threshold of man- 
hood. True, many of them might meet again ; 
many of them the University must again unite, 
but never with the same feelings. The space of 
time, passed in the world before they again met, 
would be an age of sensation, passion, experience 
to all of them. They would meet again with al- 
tered mien, with different manners, different 
voices. Their eyes would not shine with the 
same light; they would not speak the same 
words. The favorite phrases of their intimacy, 
the mystic sounds that spoke only to their initi- 
ated ear, they would be ashamed to use them. 
Yes, they might meet again, but the gushing and 
secret tenderness was gone for ever ! 

Nor could our pensive youth conceal it from 
himself that it was affection, and mainly affection, 
that had bound him to these dear companions. 
They could not be to him what he had been to 
them. His had been the inspiring mind that had 
guided their opinions, formed their tastes, di- 
rected the bent and tenor of their lives and 
thoughts. Often, indeed, had he needed, some- 
times he had even sighed for, the companionship 
of an equal or superior mind — one who, by the 
comprehension of his thought, and the richness 
of his knowledge, and the advantage of his ex- 
perience, might strengthen and illuminate and 
guide his obscure or hesitating or unpractised in- 
telligence. He had scarcely been fortunate in 
this respect, and he deeply regretted it ; for he 
was one of those who was not content with ex- 
celling in his own circle, if he thought there was 
one superior to it. Absolute, not relative dis- 
tinction, was his noble aim. 

• Alone, in a lonely scene, he doubly felt the 
solitude of his life and mind. His heart and his 
intellect seemed both to need a companion. 
Books, and action, and deep thought, might in 


HIS FIRST WANDERINGS. 


41 


time supply the want of that intellectual guide ; 
but for the heart, where was he to find solace ? 

Ah ! if she would but come forth from that 
shining lake like a beautiful Ondine ! Ah, if she 
would but step out from the green shade of that 
secret grove like a Dryad of sylvan Greece ! 0 
mystery of mysteries, when the yoikh dreams 
his first dream over some imaginary heroine ! 

Suddenly the brooding wild-fowl rose from 
the bosom of the lake, soared in the air, and, ut- 
tering mournful shrieks, whirled in agitated tu- 
mult. The deer started from their knolls, no 
longer sunny, stared around, and rushed into the 
woods. Coningsby raised his eyes from the turf 
on which they had been long fixed in abstraction, 
and he observed that the azure sky had vanished, 
a thin white film had suddenly spread itself over 
the heavens, and the wind moaned with a sad 
and fitful gust. . 

He had some reason to believe that on the 
other side of the opposite wood the forest was 
intersected by a public road, and that there were 
some habitations. Immediately rising, he de- 
scended at a rapid pace into the valley, passed 
the lake, and then struck into the ascending 
wood on the bank opposite to that on which he 
had mused away some precious time. 

The wind howled, the branches of the forest 
stirred, and sent forth sounds like an incantation. 
Soon might be distinguished the various voices 
of the mighty trees, as they expressed their terror 
or their agony. The oak roared, the beech 
shrieked, the elm sent forth its deep and long- 
drawn groan ; while ever and anon, amid a mo- 
mentary pause, the passion of the ash was heard 
in moans of thrilling anguish. 

Coningsby hurried on, the forest became less 
close. All that he aspired to was to gain more 
open country. Now he was in a rough flat land, 
covered only here and their with dwarf under- 
w r ood ; the horizon bounded at no great distance 
by a barren hill of moderate elevation. He 
gained its height with ease. He looked over a 
vast open country like a wild common ; in the ex- 
treme distance hills covered with wood ; the plain 
intersected by two good roads ; the sky entirely 
clouded, but in the distance black as ebony. 

A place of refuge was at hand — screened from 
his first glance by some elm-trees, the ascending 
smoke now betrayed a roof, which Coningsby 
reached before the tempest broke. The forest- 
inn was also a farm-house. There was a comfort- 
able-enough looking kitchen ; but the ingle nook 
was full of smokers, and Coningsby was glad to 
avail himself of the only private room for the 
simple meal which they offered him — only eggs 
and bacon ; but very welcome to a pedestrian, 
and a hungry one. 

As he stood at the window of his little apart- 
ment, watching the large drop3 that were the 
heralds of a coming hurricane, and waiting for 
his repast, a flash of lightning illumined the 
whole country, and a horseman at full speed, 
followed by his groom, galloped up to the door. 

The remarkable beauty of the animal so at- 
tracted Coningsby’s attention, that it prevented 
him catching even a glimpse of the rider, who 
rapidly dismounted and entered the inn. The 
host shortly after came in and asked Coningsby 
whether he had any objection to a gentleman, 


who was driven there by the storm, sharing his 
room until it subsided. The consequence of the 
immediate assent of Coningsby was, that the 
landlord retired and soon returned, ushering in 
an individual, who, though perhaps ten years 
older than Coningsby, was still, according to Hip- 
pocrates, in the period of lusty youth. He was 
above the middle height, and of a distinguished 
air and figure ; pale, with an impressive brow, 
and dark eyes of great intelligence. 

“I am glad that w T e have both escaped the 
storm,” said the stranger; “and I am greatly in- 
debted to you for your courtesy.” He slightly 
and graciously bowed, as he spoke in a voice of 
remarkable clearness ; and his manner, though 
easy, was touched with a degree of dignity that 
was engaging. 

“ The inn is a common home,” replied Con- 
ingsby, returning his salute. 

“And free from cares,” added the stranger. 
Then, looking through the window, he said, “ A 
strange storm this. I was sauntering in the sun- 
shine, when suddenly I found I had to gallop for 
my life. ’Tis more like a white squall in the 
Mediterranean than any thing else.” 

“ I never was in the Mediterranean,” said 
Coningsby. “ There is nothing I should like so 
much as to travel.” 

“You are travelling,” rejoined his companion. 
“Every moment is travel, if understood.” 

“Ah! but the Mediterranean!” exclaimed 
Coningsby. “ What would I not give to see 
Athens ! ” 

“ I have seen it,” said the stranger, slightly 
shrugging his shoulders ; “ and more wondei’ful 
•things. Phantoms and spectres ! The Age of 
Ruins is past. Have you seen Manchester ? ” 

“ I have seen nothing,” said Coningsby ; “ this 
is my first w r andering. I am about to visit a friend 
who lives in this county, and I have sent on my 
baggage as I could. For myself, I determined to 
trust to a less common-place conveyance.” 

“ And seek adventures,” said the stranger, 
smiling. “Well, according to Cervantes, they 
should begin in an inn.” 

“ I fear that the age of adventures is past, as 
well as that of ruins,” replied Coningsby. 

“Adventures are to the adventurous,” said 
the stranger. 

At this moment, a pretty serving-maid entered 
the room. She laid the dapper cloth and arranged 
the table with a self-possession quite admirable. 
She seemed unconscious that any being was in the 
chamber except herself, or that there were any 
other duties to perform in life beyond filling a 
salt-cellar or folding a napkin. 

“ She does not even look at us,” said Con- 
ingsby, when she had quitted the room ; “ and I 
dare say is only a prude.” 

“She is calm,” said the stranger, “because 
she is mistress of her subject; ’tis the secret of 
self-possession. She is here as a duchess at 
court.” 

They brought in Coningsby’s meal, and he in- 
vited the stranger to join him. The invitation 
was accepted with cheerfulness. 

“ ’Tis but simple fare,” said Coningsby, as the 
maiden uncovered the still hissing bacon and the 
eggs, that looked like tufts of primroses. 

“Nay, a national dish,” said the stranger, 


42 


CONINGSBY. 


glancing quickly at the table, “ whose fame is a 
proverb. And what more should we expect un- 
der a simple roof! How much better than an 
omelette or a greasy olla, that they would give us 
in a posada ! ’Tis a wonderful country this Eng- 
land ! What a napkin ! How spotless ! And so 
sweet ; I declare ’tis a perfume. There is not a 
princess throughout the South of Europe served 
with the cleanliness that meets us in this cot- 
tage.” 

“ An inheritance from our Saxon fathers ? ” 
said Coningsby. “I apprehend the northern 
nations have a greater sense of cleanliness — of 
propriety — of what we call comfort ? ” 

“ By no means,” said the stranger ; “ the East 
is the land of the Bath. Moses and Mahomet 
made cleanliness religion.” 

“ You will let me help you ? ” said Coningsby, 
offering him a plate which he had filled. 

“ I thank you,” said the stranger, “ but it is 
one of my bread days. With your permission 
this shall be my dish ; ” and he cut from the 
large loaf a supply of crusts. 

“ ’Tis but unsavory fare after a gallop,” said 
Coningsby. 

“ Ah ! you are proud of your bacon and your 
eggs,” said the stranger, smiling, “but I love 
corn and wine. They are our chief and our old- 
est luxuries. Time has brought us substitutes, 
but how inferior ! Man has deified corn and 
wine ! but not even the Chinese or the Irish have 
raised temples to tea and potatoes.” 

“ But Ceres without Bacchus,” said Conings- 
by, “ how does that do ? Think you, under this 
roof, we could invoke the god ? ” 

“ Let us swear by his body that we will try,” 
said the stranger. 

Alas ! the landlord was not a priest to Bac- 
chus. But then these inquiries led to the finest 
perry in the world. The young men agreed they 
had seldom tasted anything more delicious ; they 
sent for another bottle. Coningsby, who was 
much interested by his new companion, enjoyed 
himself amazingly. 

A cheese, such as Derby alone can produce, 
could not induce the stranger to be even partially 
inconstant to his crusts. But his talk was as viva- 
cious as if the talker had been stimulated by the 
juices of the finest banquet. Coningsby had 
never met or read of any one like this chance- 
companion. His sentences were so short, his 
language so racy, his voice rang so clear, his elo- 
cution was so complete. On all subjects his 
mind seemed to be instructed, and his opinions 
formed. He flung out a result in a few words ; 
he solved with a phrase some deep problem that 
men muse over for years. He said many things 
that were strange, yet they immediately appeared 
to be true. Then, without the slightest air of 
pretention or parade, he seemed to know every- 
body as well as everything. Monarchs, states- 
men, authors, adventurers, of all descriptions and 
of all climes — if their names occurred in their 
conversation, he described them in an epigram- 
matic sentence, or revealed their precise position, 
character, calibre, by a curt dramatic trait. All 
this, too, without any excitement of manner ; on 
the contrary, with repose amounting almost to 
nonchalance. If his address had any fault in it, 
it was rather a deficiency of earnestness. A 


slight spirit of myckery played over his speech 
even when you deemed him most serious ; you 
were startled by his sudden transitions from pro- 
found thought to poignant sarcasm. A very sin- 
gular freedom from passion and prejudice on 
every topic on which they treated, might be some 
compensation for this want of earnestness, per- 
haps was its consequence. Certainly it was diffi- 
cult to ascertain his precise opinions on many 
subjects, though his manner was frank even to 
abandonment. And yet throughout his whole 
conversation, not a stroke of egotism, not a word, 
not a circumstance escaped him, by which you 
could judge of his position or purposes in life. 
As little did he seem to care to discover those of 
his companion. He did not by any means mo- 
nopolise the conversation. Far from it ; he con- 
tinually asked questions, and while he received 
answers, or had engaged his fellow-traveller in 
any exposition of his opinion or feelings, he lis- 
tened with a serious and fixed attention, looking 
Coningsby in the face with a steadfast glance. 

“ I perceive,” said Coningsby, pursuing a 
strain of thought which the other had indicated, 
“ that you have great confidence in the influence 
of individual character. I also have some con- 
fused persuasions of that kind. But it is not the 
Spirit of the Age.” 

“ The age does not believe in great men, be- 
cause it does not possess any,” replied the stran- 
ger. “ The Spirit of the Age is the very thing 
that a great man changes.” 

“ But does he not rather avail himself of it ? ” 
inquired Coningsby. 

“ Parvenus do,” rejoined his companion ; 
“but not prophets, great legislators, great con- 
querors. They destroy and they create.” 

“ But are these times for great legislators and 
great conquerors ? ” urged Coningsby. 

“ When were they wanted more ? ” asked the 
stranger. “ From the throne to the hovel all call 
for a guide. You give monarchs constitutions 
to teach them sovereignty, and nations Sunday- 
schools to inspire them with faith.” 

“ But what is an individual,” exclaimed Con- 
ingsby, “ against a vast public opinion ? ” 

“ Divine,” said the stranger. “ God made 
man in His own image ; but the Public is made 
by Newspapers, Members of Parliament, Excise 
Officers, Poor-law Guardians. Would Philip 
have succeeded if Epaminondas had not been 
slain ? And if Philip had not succeeded ? 
Would Prussia have existed had Frederick not 
been born ? And if Frederick had not been 
born ? What would have been the fate of the 
Stuarts if Prince Henry had not died, and Charles 
I., as was intended, had been Archbishop of Can- 
terbury ? ” 

“ But when men are young they want experi- 
ence,” said Coningsby ; “ and when they have 
gained experience, they want energy.” 

“ Great men never want experience,” said the 
stranger. 

“ But everybody says that experience — ” 

“ Is the best thing in the world — a treasure 
for you, for me, for millions. But for a creative 
mind, less than nothing. Almost everything that 
is great has been done by youth.” 

“ It is at least a creed flattering to our years,” 
said Coningsby, with a smile. 


THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER. 


43 


“ Nay,” said the stranger ; “ for life in gener- 
al there is but one decree. Youth is a blunder; 
Manhood a struggle; old Age a regret. Do not 
suppose,” he added, smiling, “ that I hold that 
youth is genius ; all that I say is, that genius, 
when young, is divine. Why, the greatest cap- 
tains of ancient and modern times both con- 
quered Italy at five-and-twenty ! Youth, extreme 
youth, overthrew the Persian Empire. Don John 
of Austria won Lepanto at twenty-five — the great- 
est battle of modern time ; had it not been for 
the jealousy of Philip, the next year, he would 
have been Emperor of Mauritania. Gaston de 
Foix was only twenty-two when he stood a victor 
on the plain of Ravenna. Every one remembers 
Conde and Rocroy at the same age. Gustavus 
Adolphus died at thirty-eight. Look at his cap- 
tains : that wonderful Duke of Weimar, only thir- 
ty-six when he died. Banier himself, after all his 
miracles, died at forty-five. Cortes was little 
more than thirty when he gazed upon the golden 
cupolas of Mexico. When Maurice of Saxony 
died at thirty-two, all Europe acknowledged the 
loss of the greatest captain and the profoundest 
statesman of the age. Then there is Nelson, Clive 
— but these are warriors, and perhaps you may 
think there are greater things than war. I do 
not : I worship the Lord of Hosts. But take the 
most illustrious achievements of civil prudence. 
Innocent III., the greatest of the Popes, was the 
despot of Christendom at thirty-seven. John de 
Medici was a Cardinal at fifteen, and according to 
Guicciardini, baffled with his statecraft Ferdinand 
of Arragon himself. He was Pope as Leo X. at 
thirty-seven. Luther robbed even him of his rich- 
est province at thirty-five. Take Ignatius Loyola 
and John Wesley, they worked with young 
brains. Ignatius was only thirty when he made 
his pilgrimage and wrote the ‘ Spiritual Exer- 
cises. 5 Pascal wrote a great work at sixteen, and 
died at thirty-seven — the greatest of Frenchmen. 

“ Ah ! that fatal thirty-seven which reminds 
me of Byron, greater even as a man than a 
writer. Was it experience that guided the pencil 
of Raphael when he painted the palaces of Rome ? 
He, too, died at thirty-seven. Richelieu was Sec- 
retary of State at thirty-one. Well, then, there 
were Bolingbroke and Pitt, both ministers before 
other men left off cricket. Grotius was in great 
practice at seventeen, and Attorney-General at 
twenty-four. And Acquaviva — Acquaviva was 
General of the Jesuits, ruled every cabinet in 
Europe, and colonised America before he was 
thirty-seven. What a career ! ” exclaimed the 
stranger, rising from his chair, and walking up 
and down the room ; “ the secret sway of Europe ! 
That was indeed a position ! But it is needless 
to multiply instances ! The history of Heroes is 
the history of Youth.” 

“ Ah ! ” said Coningsby, “ I should like to be 
a great man ! ” 

The stranger threw at him a scrutinising 
glance. His countenance was serious. He said 
in a voice of almost solemn melody, — 

“Nurture your mind with great thoughts. 
To believe in the heroic makes heroes.” 

“ You seem to me a hero,” said Coningsby, in 
a tone of real feeling, which, half ashamed of his 
emotion, he tried to turn into playfulness. 

“I am, and must ever be,” said the stranger, 


“ but a dreamer of dreams.” Then going toward 
the window, and changing into a familiar tone, as 
if to divert the conversation, be added, “ What a 
delicious afternoon ! I look forward to my ride 
with delight. You rest here ? ” 

“No; I go on to Nottingham, where I shall 
sleep.” 

“ And I in the opposite direction.” And he 
rang the bell and ordered his horses. 

“ I long to see your mare again,” said Con- 
ingsby. " She seemed to me so beautiful.” 

“She is not only of pure race,” said the 
stranger, “ but of the highest and rarest breed in 
Arabia. Her name is ‘ the Daughter of the Star.’ 
She is a foal of that famous mare which belonged 
to the Prince of the Wahabees ; and to possess 
which, I believe, was* one of the principal causes 
of war between that tribe and the Egyptians. 
The Pacha of Egypt gave her to me, and I would 
not change her for her statue in pure gold, even 
carved by Lysippus. Come round to the stable 
and see her.” 

They went out together. It was a soft sunny 
afternoon ; the air fresh from the rain, but mild 
and exhilarating. 

The groom brought forth the mare. “The 
Daughter of the Star ” stood before Coningsby 
with her sinewy shape of matchless symmetry ; 
her burnished skin, black mane, legs like those 
of an antelope, her little ears, dark speaking eye, 
and tail worthy of a pacha. And who was her 
master, and whither was she about to take him ? 

Coningsby was so naturally well-bred, that we 
may be sure it was not curiosity ; no, it was a 
finer feeling that made him hesitate and think a 
little, and then say, — 

“ I am sorry to part.” 

“ I also,” said the stranger. “ But life is con- 
stant separation.” 

“ I hope we may meet again,” said Coningsby. 

“If our acquaintance be worth preserving,” 
said the stranger, “ you may be sure it will not 
be lost.” 

“ But mine is not worth preserving,” said 
Coningsby, earnestly. “ It is yours that is the 
treasure. You teach me things of which I have 
long mused.” 

The stranger took the bridle of the “ Daughter 
of the Star,” and turning round with a faint 
smile, extended his hand to his companion. 

“ Your mind at least is nurtured w r ith great 
thoughts,” said Coningsby ; “ your actions should 
be heroic.” 

“ Action is not for me,” said the stranger ; “ I 
am of that faith that the Apostles professed be- 
fore they followed their Master.” 

He vaulted into his saddle, “ the Daughter of 
the Star” bounded away as if she scented the air 
of the Desert from which she and her rider had 
alike sprung, and Coningsby remained in profound 
meditation. 


CHAPTER II. 

The day after his adventure at the Forest Inn, 
Coningsby arrived at Beaumanoir. It was sev- 
eral years since he had visited the family of his 
friend, who were indeed also his kin ; and in his 
boyish days had often proved that they were not 


44 


CONINGSBY. 


unmindful of the affinity. This was a visit that 
had been long counted on, long promised, and 
which a variety of circumstances had hitherto 
prevented. It was to have been made by the 
schoolboy : it was to be fulfilled by the man. 
For no less a character could Coningsby under 
any circumstances now consent to claim, since he 
was closely verging to the completion of his nine- 
teenth year ; and it appeared manifest that if it 
were his destiny to do anything great, he had but 
few years to wait before the full development of 
his power. Visions of Gastons de Foix and Mau- 
rices of Saxony, statesmen giving up cricket to 
govern nations, beardless Jesuits plunged in pro- 
found abstraction in omnipotent cabinets, haunted 
his fancy from the moment he had separated 
from his mysterious and deeply interesting com- 
panion. To nurture his mind with great thoughts 
had ever been Coningsby’s inspiring habit. Was 
it also destined that he should achieve the 
heroic ? 

There are some books, when we close them — 
one or two in the course of our life — difficult as 
it may be to analyse or ascertain the cause — our 
minds seem to have made a great leap. A thou- 
sand obscure things receive light ; a multitude of 
indefinite feelings are determined. Our intellect 
grasps and grapples with all subjects with a ca- 
pacity, a flexibility, and a vigor, before unknown 
to us. It masters questions hitherto perplexing, 
which are not even touched or referred to in the 
volume just closed. What is this magic ? It is 
the spirit of the supreme author, by a magnetic 
influence blending with our sympathising intelli- 
gence, that directs and inspires it. By that mys- 
terious sensibility we extend to questions which 
he has not treated, the same intellectual force 
which he has exercised over those which he has 
expounded. His genius for a time remains in us. 
’Tis the same with human beings as with books. 
All of us encounter, at least once in our life, some 
individual who utters words that make us think 
for ever. There are men whose phrases are 
oracles ; who condense in a sentence the secrets 
of life ; who blurt out an aphorism that forms a 
character or illustrates an existence. A great 
thing is a great book ; but greater than all is the 
talk of a great man ! 

And what is a great man ? Is it a Minister 
of State ? Is it a victorious General ? A gentle- 
man in the Windsor uniform ? A Field Marshal 
covered with stars ? Is it a Prelate, or a Prince ? 
A King, even an Emperor ? It may be all these ? 
yet these, as we must all daily feel, are not ne- 
cessarily great men. A great man is one who 
affects the mind of his generation : whether he 
be a monk in his cloister agitating Christendom, 
or a monarch crossing the Granicus, and giving a 
new character to the Pagan world. 

Our young Coningsby reached Beaumanoir in 
a state of meditation. He also desired to be 
great. Not from the restless vanity that some- 
times impels youth to momentary exertion, by 
which they sometimes obtain a distinction as 
evanescent as their energy. The ambition of our 
hero was altogether of a different character. It 
was, indeed, at present not a little vague, indefi- 
nite, hesitating, inquiring, sometimes desponding. 
What were his powers ? what should be his aim ? 
were often to him, as to all young aspirants, 


questions infinitely perplexing and full of pain. 
But on the whole, there ran through his char- 
acter, notwithstanding his many dazzling qualities 
and accomplishments, and his juvenile celebrity, 
which has spoiled so much promise, a vein of 
grave simplicity that was the consequence of an 
earnest temper, and of an intellect that would be 
content with nothing short of the profound. 

His was a mind that loved to pursue every 
question to the centre. But it was not a spirit 
of scepticism that impelled this habit; on the 
contrary, it was the spirit of faith. Coningsby 
fouud that he was born in an age of infidelity in 
all things, and his heart assured him that a want 
of faith was a want of nature. But his vigorous 
intellect could not take refuge in that maudlin 
substitute for belief which consists in a patronage 
of fantastic theories. He needed that deep and 
enduring conviction that the heart and the in- 
tellect, feeling and reason united, can alone sup- 
ply. He asked himself why governments were 
hated, and religions despised ? Why loyalty was 
dead, and reverence only a galvanised corpse ? 

These were indeed questions that had as yet 
presented themselves to his thought in a very 
crude and imperfect form ; but their very occur- 
rence showed the strong predisposition of his 
mind. It was because he had not found guides 
among his elders, that his thoughts had been 
turned to the generation that he himself repre- 
sented. The sentiment of veneration was so 
developed in his nature, that he was exactly the 
youth that would have hung with enthusiastic 
humility on the accents of some sage of old in the 
groves of Academus, or the porch of Zeno. But 
as yet he had found age only perplexed and de- 
sponding ; manhood only callous and desperate. 
Some thought that systems would last their time ; 
others, that something would turn up. His deep 
and pious spirit recoiled with disgust and horror 
from such lax, chance-medley maxims, that 
would, in their consequences, reduce man to the 
level of the brutes. Notwithstanding a prejudice 
which had haunted him from his childhood, he 
had, when the occasion offered, applied to Mr. 
Rigby for instruction, as one distinguished in the 
republic of letters, as well as the realm of poli- 
tics; who assumed the guidance of the public 
mind, and, as the phrase runs, was looked up to. 
Mr. Rigby listened at first to the inquiries of 
Coningsby, urged, as they ever were, with a mod- 
esty and deference which do not always character- 
ise juvenile investigations, as if Coningsby were 
speaking to him of the unknowm tongues. But 
Mr. Rigby was not a man who ever confessed 
himself at fault. He caught up something of the 
subject as our young friend proceeded, and was 
perfectly prepared, long before he had finished, 
to take the whole conversation into his own 
hands. 

Mr. Rigby began by ascribing everything to 
the Reform Bill, and then referred to several 
of his own speeches on Schedule A. Then he 
told Coningsby that want of religious Faith was 
solely occasioned by want of churches ; and want 
of Loyalty, by George IY. having shut himself up 
too much at the Cottage in Windsor Park, en- 
tirely against the advice of Mr. Rigby. He as- 
sured Coningsby that the Church Commission 
was operating wonders, and that with private 


LADY THERESA SYDNEY. 


benevolence (he had himself subscribed 1000?., 
for Lord Monmouth) we should soon have 
churches enough. Tiie great question now was 
their architecture. Had George IV. lived, all 
would have befen right. They would have been 
built on the model of the Budhist pagoda. As 
for Loyalty, if the present King went regularly to 
Ascot races, he had no doubt all would go right. 
Finally, Mr. Rigby impressed Coningsby to read 
the Quarterly Review with great attention ; and 
to make himself master of Mr. Wordy’s History 
of the late War, in twenty volumes, a capital 
work, which proves that Providence was on the 
side of the Tories. 

Coningsby did not apply to Mr. Rigby again ; 
but worked on with his own mind, coming often 
enough to sufficiently crude conclusions, and oft- 
en very much perplexed and harassed. He tried 
occasionally his inferences on his companions, 
who were intelligent and full of fervor. Millbank 
was more than this. He was of a very thought- 
ful mood — had also caught up from a new school 
some principles, which were materials for discus- 
sion. Oneway or other, however, before he quit- 
ted Eton, there prevailed among the circle of 
friends, the initial idea doubtless emanating from 
Coningsby, an earnest, though a rather vague, 
conviction, that the present state of feeling in 
matters both civil and religious was not healthy ; 
that there must be substituted for this latitudi- 
narianism something sound and deep, fervent and 
well defined, and that the priests of this new 
faith must be found among the New Generation ; 
so that when the bright-minded rider of “ the 
Daughter of the Star ” descanted on the influence 
of individual character, of great thoughts and 
heroic actions, and the divine power of youth and 
genius, he touched a string that was the very 
heart-chord of his companion, who listened with 
fascinated enthusiasm, as he introduced him to 
his gallery of inspiring models. 

Coningsby arrived at Beaumanoir at a season 
when men can neither hunt nor shoot. Great in- 
ternal resources should be found in a country 
family under such circumstances. The Duke and 
Duchess had returned from London only a few 
days with their daughter, who had been present- 
ed this year. They were all glad to find them- 
selves again in the country, which they loved, 
and which loved them. One of their sons-in- 
law and his wife, and Henry Sydney, completed 
the party. 

There are few conjunctures in life of a more 
startling interest, than to meet the pretty little 
girl that we have gambolled with in our boyhood, 
and to find her changed in the lapse of a very 
few years, which in some instances, may not have 
brought a corresponding alteration in our own 
appearance, into a beautiful woman. Something 
of this flitted over Coningsby’s mind, as he 
bowed, a little agitated from his surprise, to La- 
dy Theresa Sydney. All that he remembered 
had prepared him for beauty ; but not for the de- 
gree or character of beauty that he met. It was 
a rich, sweet face, with blue eyes and dark lashes, 
and a nose that we have no epithet in English to 
describe, but which charmed in Roxalana. Her 
brown hair fell over her white and well-turned 
shoulders in long and luxuriant tresses. One has 
met something as brilliant and dainty in a me- 


45 

dallion of old Sevres, or amid the terraces and 
gardens of Watteau. 

Perhaps Lady Theresa, too, might have wel- 
comed him with more freedom had his appear- 
ance also more accorded with the image which 
he had left behind. Coningsby was a boy then, 
as we described him in our first chapter. Though 
only nineteen now, he had attained his full stat- 
ure, which was above the middle height, and time 
had fulfilled that promise of symmetry in his fig- 
ure, and grace in his mien, then so largely inti- 
mated. Time, too, which had not yet robbed his 
countenance of any of its physical beauty, had 
strongly developed the intellectual charm by 
which it had ever been distinguished. As he 
bowed lowly before the Duchess and her daugh- 
ter, it would have been difficult to image a youth 
of a mien more prepossessing and a manner more 
finished. 

A manner that was spontaneous ; nature’s 
pure gift, the reflex of his feeling. No artifice 
prompted that profound and polished homage. 
Not one of those influences, the aggregate of 
whose sway produces, as they tell us, the finished 
gentleman, had ever exercised its beneficent pow- 
er on our orphan, and not rarely forlorn, Conings- 
by. No clever and refined woman, with her 
quick perception, and nice criticism that never 
offends our self-love, had ever given him that ed- 
ucation that is more precious than Universities. 
The mild suggestions of a sister, the gentle rail- 
lery of some laughing cousin, are also advantages 
not always appreciated at the time, hut which 
boys, when they have become men, often think 
over with gratitude, and a little remorse at the 
ungracious spirit in which they were received. 
Not even the dancing-master had afforded his 
mechanical aid to Coningsby, who, like all Eton 
boys, of this generation, viewed that professor of 
accomplishments with frank repugnance. But 
even in the boisterous life of school, Coningsby, 
though his style was free and flowing, was always 
well-bred. His spirit recoiled from that gross fa- 
miliarity that is the characteristic of modern 
manners, and which would destroy all forms and 
ceremonies merely because they curb and control 
their own coarse convenience and ill-disguised 
selfishness. To women, however, Coningsby in- 
stinctively bowed, as to beings set apart for rever- 
ence and delicate treatment. Little as his expe- 
rience was of them, his spirit had been fed with 
chivalrous fancies, and he entertained for them 
all the ideal devotion of a Surrey or a Sidney. 
Instructed, if not learned, as books and thought 
had already made him in men, he could not con- 
ceive that there were any other women in the 
•world than fair Geraldines and Countesses of 
Pembroke. 

There was not a country-house in England that 
had so completely the air of habitual residence as 
Beaumanoir. It is a charming trait, and very 
rare. In many great mansions everything is as 
stiff, formal, and tedious, as if your host were a 
Spanish grandee in the days of the Inquisition. 
No ease, no resources; the passing life seems a 
solemn spectacle in which you play a part. How 
delightful was the morning-room at Beaumanoir ; 
from which gentlemen were not excluded with 
that assumed suspicion that they can never enter 
it but for felonious purposes. Such a profusion 


46 


CONINGSBY. 


of flowers ! Such a multitude of books ! Such 
a various prodigality of writing materials ! So 
many easy chairs too, of so many shapes; each in 
itself a comfortable home ; yet nothing crowded. 
Woman alone can organise a drawing-room ; man 
succeeds sometimes in a library. And the ladies’ 
work ! How graceful they look bending over 
their embroidery-frames, consulting over the ar- 
rangement of a group, or the color of a flower. 
The panniers and fanciful baskets, overflowing 
with variegated worsted, are gay and full of pleas- 
ure to the eye, and give an air of elegant business 
that is vivifying. Even the sight of employment 
interests. 

Then the morning costume of English women 
is itself a beautiful work of art. At this period 
of the day they can find no rivals in other climes. 
The brilliant complexions of the daughters of the 
north dazzle in daylight; the illumined saloon 
levels all distinctions. One should see them in 
their well-fashioned muslin dresses. What ma- 
trons, and what maidens ! Full of graceful dig- 
nity, fresher than the morn ! And the married 
beauty in her little lace cap. Ah, she is a co- 
quette ! A charming character at all times ; in a 
country-house an invaluable one. 

A coquette is a being who wishes to please. 
Amiable being ! If you do not like her, you will 
have no difficulty in finding a female companion 
of a different mood. Alas ! coquettes are but too 
rare. ’Tis a career that requires great abilities, 
infinite pains, a gay and airy spirit. ’Tis the co- 
quette that provides all amusement ; suggests the 
riding-party, plans the pic-nic, gives and guesses 
charades, acts them. She is the stirring element 
amid the heavy congeries of social atoms ; the 
soul of the house, the salt of the banquet. Let 
any one pass a very agreeable week, or it may be 
ten days, under any roof, and analyse the cause 
of his satisfaction, and one might safely make a 
gentle wager that his solution would present him 
with the frolic phantom of a coquette. 

“ It is impossible that Mr. Coningsby can re- 
member me ! ” said a clear voice ; and he looked 
round, and was greeted by a pair of sparkling 
eyes and the gayest smile in the world. 

It was Lady Everingham, the Duke’s married 
daughter. 


CHAPTER III. 

“And you walked here!” said Lady Evering- 
ham to Coningsby, when the stir of arranging 
themselves at dinner had subsided. “ Only think, 
papa, Mr. Coningsby walked here! I also am a 
great walker.” 

“ I had heard much of the forest,” said Con- 
ingsby. 

“ Which I am sure did not disappoint you,” 
said the Duke. 

“ But forests without adventures ! ” said Lady 
Everingham, a little shrugging her pretty shoul- 
ders. 

“ But I had an adventure,” said Coningsby. 

“ Oh ! tell it us by all means ! ” said the Lady, 
with great animation. “ Adventures are my 
weakness. I have had more adventures than any 
one. Have I not had, Augustus?” she added, 
addressing her husband. 


“ But you make everything out to be an ad- 
venture, Isabel,” said Lord Everingham. “ I dare 
say that Mr. Coningsby’s was more substantial.” 
And looking at our young friend, he invited him 
to inform them. 

“ I met a most extraordinary man,” said Con- 
ingsby. 

“ It should have been a heroine,” exclaimed 
Lady Everingham. 

“ Do you know anybody in this neighborhood 
who rides the finest Arab in the world ? ” asked 
Coningsby. “ She is called ‘ the Daughter of the 
Star,’ and was given to her rider by the Pacha of 
Egypt.” 

“This is really an adventure,” said Lady 
Everingham, interested. 

“ The Daughter of the Star ! ” said Lady The- 
resa. “ What a pretty name ! Percy has a horse 
called ‘ Sunbeam.’ ” 

“A fine Arab, the finest in the world ! ” said 
the Duke, who was very fond of horses. “ Who 
can it be ? ” 

“ Can you throw any light on this, Mr. Lyle ? ” 
asked the Duchess of a young man who sat next 
her. 

He was a neighbor who had joined their din- 
ner-party. Eustace Lyle, a Roman Catholic, and 
the richest commoner in the county ; for he Had 
succeeded to a great estate early in his minority, 
which had only this year terminated. 

“ I certainly do not know the horse,” said Mr. 
Lyle ; “ but if Mr. Coningsby would describe the 
rider, perhaps — ” 

“ He is a man something under thirty,” said 
Coningsby, “pale, with dark hair. We met in a 
sort of forest-iun during a storm. A most sin- 
gular man ! Indeed I never met any one who 
seemed to me so clever, or to say such remark- 
able things.” 

“ He must have been the spirit of the storm,” 
said Lady Everingham. 

“Charles Verney has a great deal of dark 
hair,” said Lady Theresa. “ But then he is any- 
thing but pale, and his eyes are blue.” 

“ And certainly he keeps his wonderful things 
for your ear, Theresa,” said her sister. 

“I wish that Mr. Coningsby would tell us 
some of the wonderful things he said,” said the 
Duchess, smiling. 

“ Take a glass of wine first with my mother, 
Coningsby,” said Henry Sydney, who had just 
finished helping them all to fish. 

Coningsby had too much tact to be entrapped 
into a long story. He already regretted that he 
had been betrayed into any allusion to the 
stranger. He had a wild, fanciful notion, that 
their meeting ought to have been preserved as a 
sacred secret. But he had been impelled to refer 
to it in the first instance by the chance observa- 
tion of Lady Everingham ; and he had pursued 
his remark from the hope that the conversation 
might have led to the discovery of the unknown. 
When he found that his inquiry in this respect 
was unsuccessful, he was willing to turn the con- 
versation. In reply to the Duchess, then, he 
generally described the talk of the stranger as 
full of lively anecdote and epigrammatic views of 
life ; and gave them, for example, a saying of a 
very illustrious foreign prince, which was quite 
new and pointed, and which Coningsby told well. 


THE NEW POOR LAW. 


47 


This led to a new train of discourse. The Duke 
also knew this illustrious foreign prince, and told 
another story of him ; and Lord Everingham had 
played whist with this illustrious foreign prince 
very often at the Travellers’, and this led to a 
third story ; none of them too long. Then Lady 
Everingham came in again, and sparkled very 
agreeably. She, indeed, sustained throughout 
dinner the principal weight of the conversation ; 
but, as she asked questions of everybody, all 
seemed to contribute. Even the voice of Mr. 
Lyle, who was rather bashful, was occasionally 
heard in reply. Coningsby, who had at first un- 
intentionally taken a more leading part than he 
aspired to, would have retired into the back- 
ground for the rest of the dinner, but Lady Ever- 
ingham continually signalled him out for her ques- 
tions, and as she sat opposite to him, he seemed 
the person to whom they were principally ad- 
dressed. 

At length the ladies rose to retire. A very 
great personage in a foreign, but not a remote 
country, once mentioned to the writer of these 
pages that he ascribed the superiority of the Eng- 
lish in political life, in their conduct of public 
business and practical views of affairs, in a great 
measure to “that little half-hour” that separates, 
after dinner, the dark from the fair sex. The 
writer humbly submitted, that if the period of 
disjunction were strictly limited to a “ little half- 
hour,” its salutary consequences for both sexes 
need not be disputed, but that in England the 
“ little half-hour ” was too apt to swell into a 
term of far more awful character and duration. 
Lady Everingham was a disciple of the “very 
little half-hour ” school ; for, as she gaily followed 
her mother, she said to Coningsby, whose gra- 
cious lot it was to usher them from the apart- 
ment — 

“ Pray do not be too long at the Board of 
Guardians to-day.” 

These were prophetic words ; for no sooner 
were they all again seated, than the Duke, filling 
his glass and pushing the claret to Coningsby, 
observed : 

“ I suppose Lord Monmouth does not trouble 
himself much about the New Poor Law ? ” 

“ Hardly,” said Coningsby. “ My grand- 
father’s frequent absence from England, which 
his health, I believe, renders quite necessary, 
deprives him of the advantage of personal ob- 
servation on a subject, than which I can myself 
conceive none more deeply interesting.” 

“ I am glad to hear you say so,” said the 
Duke, “ and it does you great credit, and Henry 
too, whose attention, I observe, is directed very 
much to these subjects. In my time, the young 
men did not think so much of such things, and 
we suffer consequently. By the bye, Evering- 
ham, you, who are a Chairman of the Board of 
Guardians, can give me some information. Sup- 
posing a case of out-door relief — ” 

“ I could not suppose any thing so absurd,” 
said the son-in-law. 

“Well,” rejoined the Duke, “I know your 
views on that subject, and it certainly is a ques- 
tion on which there is a good deal to be said. 
But would you under any circumstances give 
relief out of the Union, even if the parish were 
to save a considerable sum ? ” 


“ I wish I knew the Union where such a sys- 
tem was followed,” said Lord Everingham ; and 
his Grace seemed to tremble under his son-in- 
law’s glance. 

The Duke had a good heart, and not a bad 
head. If he had not made in his youth so many 
Latin and English verses, he might have acquired 
considerable information, for he had a natural 
love of letters, though his pack were the pride of 
England, his barrel seldom missed, and his fortune 
on the turf, where he never betted, was a proverb. 
He was good, and he wished to do good ; but his 
views were confused from want of knowledge, 
and his conduct often inconsistent because a sense 
of duty made him immediately active ; and he 
often acquired in the consequent experience a 
conviction exactly contrary to that which had 
prompted his activity. 

His Grace had been a great patron and a zeal- 
ous administrator of the New Poor Law. He had 
been persuaded that it would elevate the condi- 
tion of the laboring class. His son-in-law, Lord 
Everingham, who was a Whig, and a clear-head- 
ed, cold-blooded man, looked upon the New Poor 
Law as another Magna Charta. Lord Evering;- 
ham was completely master of the subject. He 
was himself the Chairman of one of the most 
considerable Unions of the kingdom. The Duke, 
if he ever had a misgiving, had no chance in argu- 
ment with his son-in-law. Lord Everingham over- 
whelmed him with quotations from Commis- 
sioners’ rules and Sub-commissioner’ reports, sta- 
tistical tables, and references to dietaries. Some- 
times with a strong case, the Duke struggled to 
make a fight; but Lord Everingham, when he 
was at fault for a reply, which was very rare, up- 
braided his father-in-law with the abuses of the 
old system, and frightened him with visions of 
rates exceeding rentals. 

Of late, however, a considerable change had 
taken place in the Duke’s feelings on this great 
question. His son Henry entertained strong 
opinions upon it, and had combated his father 
with all the fervor of a young votary. A victory 
over his Grace, indeed, was not very difficult. 
His natural impulse would have early enlisted 
him on the side, if not of opposition to the new 
system, at least of critical suspicion of its spirit 
and provisions. It was only the statistics and 
sharp acuteness of his son-in-law that had, indeed, 
ever kept him to his colors. Lord Henry would 
not listen to statistics, dietary tables, Commis- 
sioners’ rules, Sub-commissioners’ reports. He 
went far higher than his father; far deeper than 
his brother-in-law. He represented to the Duke 
that the order of the peasantry was as ancient, 
legal, and recognised an order as the order of the 
nobility ; that it had distinct rights and privi- 
leges, though for centuries they had been invaded 
and violated, and permitted to fall into desuetude. 
He impressed upon the Duke that the parochial 
constitution of this country was more important 
than its political constitution ; that it was more 
ancient, more universal in its influence ; and that 
this parochial constitution had already been 
shaken to its centre by the New Poor Law. He 
assured his father that it would never be well for 
England until this order of the peasantry was 
restored to its pristine condition ; not merely in 
physical comfort, for that must vary according to 


48 


CONINGSBY. 


the economical circumstances of the time, like 
that of every class; but to its condition in all 
those moral attributes which make a recognised 
rank in a nation ; and which, in a great degree, 
are independent of economics ; manners, customs, 
ceremonies, rights, and privileges. 

“ Henry thinks,” said Lord Everingham, “ that 
the people are to be fed by dancing round a May- 
pole.” 

“ But will the people be more fed because 
they do not dance round a May-pole ? ” urged 
Lord Henry. 

“ Obsolete customs ! ” said Lord Everingham. 

“ And why should dancing round a May-pole 
be more obsolete than holding a Chapter of the 
Garter ? ” asked Lord Henry. 

The Duke, who was a blue ribbon, felt this a 
home thrust. “ I must say,” said his Grace, 
“ that I for one deeply regret that our popular 
customs have been permitted to fall so into desue- 
tude.” 

“ The Spirit of the Age is against such 
things,” said Lord Everingham. 

“And what is the Spirit of the Age?” asked 
Coningsby. 

“The Spirit of Utility,” said Lord Evering- 
ham. 

“And you think then that ceremony is not 
useful ? ” urged Coningsby, mildly. 

“ It depends upon circumstances,” said Lord 
Everingham. “There are some ceremonies, no 
doubt, that are very proper, and of course very 
useful. But the best thing -we can do for the 
laboring classes is to provide them with work.” 

“But what do you mean by the laboring 
classes, Everingham ? ” asked Lord Henry. 
“ Lawyers are a laboring class, for instance, and 
by the bye sufficiently provided with work. But 
would you approve of Westminster Hall being 
denuded of all its ceremonies ? ” 

“ And the long vacation being abolished ? ” 
added Coningsby. 

“ Theresa brings me terrible accounts of the 
sufferings of the poor about us,” said the Duke, 
shaking his head. 

“Women think every thing to be suffering !” 
said Lord Everingham. 

“ How do you find them about you, Mr. 
Lyle ? ” continued the Duke. 

“ I have revived the monastic customs at St. 
Genevieve,” said the young man, blushing very 
much. “ There is an almsgiving twice a week.” 

“ I am sure I wish I could see the laboring 
classes happy,” said the Duke. 

“ Oh ! pray do not use, my dear father, that 
phrase, the lalaoring classes ! ” said Lord Henry. 
“ What do you think, Coningsby, the other day 
we had a meeting in this neighborhood to vote an 
agricultural petition that was to comprise all 
classes. I went with my father, and I was made 
chairman of the committee to draw up the peti- 
tion. Of course, I described it as the petition of 
the nobility, clergy, gentry, yeomanry, and peas- 
antry of the County of ; and, could you 

believe it, they struck out peasantry as a word no 
longer used, and inserted laborers .” 

“What can it signify,” said Lord Evering- 
ham, “ whether a man be called a laborer or a 
peasant ? ” 

“ And what can it signify,” said his brother- 


in-law, “ whether a man be called Mr. Howard or 
Lord Everingham ? ” 

They were the most affectionate family under 
this roof of Beaumanoir, and of all members of 
it, Lord Henry the sweetest tempered, and yet it 
was astonishing what sharp skirmishes every day 
arose between him and his brother-in-law, during 
“ that little half-hour,” that forms so happily the 
political character of the nation. The Duke, who 
from experience felt that a guerilla movement 
was impending, asked his guests whether they 
would take any more claret ; and on their signi- 
fying their dissent, moved an adjournment to the 
ladies. 

They joined the ladies in the music-room. 
Coningsby, not experienced in feminine society, 
and who found a little difficulty from want of 
practice in maintaining conversation, though he 
was very desirous of succeeding, was delighted 
with Lady Everingham, who, instead of requiring 
to be amused, amused him ; and suggested so 
many subjects, and glanced at so many topics, 
that there never was that cold, awkward pause, 
so common with sullen spirits and barren brains. 
Lady Everingham thoroughly understood the art 
of conversation, which, indeed, consists in the ex- 
ercise of two fine qualities. You must originate, 
and you must sympathize ; you must possess at 
the same time the habit of communicating and 
the habit of listening. The union is rather rare, 
but irresistible. 

Lady Everingham was not a celebrated beauty, 
but she was something infinitely more delightful 
— a captivating woman. There were combined in 
her, qualities not commonly met together, great 
vivacity of mind with great grace of manner. Her 
words sparkled and her movements charmed. 
There was, indeed, in all she said and did, that 
congruity that indicates a complete and harmo- 
nious organization. It was the same just pro- 
portion which characterized her form : a shape 
slight and undulating with grace ; the most beau- 
tifully shaped ear; a small, soft hand; a foot 
that would have fitted the glass slipper ; and 
which, by the bye, she lost no opportunity of dis- 
playing ; and she was right, for it was a model. 

Then there was music. Lady Theresa sang 
like a seraph : a rich voice, a grand style. And 
her sister could support her with grace and 
sweetness. And they did not sing too much. 
The Duke took up a review, and looked at Rig- 
by’s last slashing article. The country seemed 
ruined, but it appeared that the Whigs were still 
worse off than the Tories. The assassins had 
committed suicide. This poetical justice is pleas- 
ing. Lord Everingham lounging in an easy oh air, 
perused with great satisfaction his Morning 
Chronicle, which contained a cutting reply to Mr. 
Rigby’s article, not quite so “ slashing ” as the 
Right Honorable scribe’s manifesto, but with 
some searching mockery, that became the sub- 
ject and the subject-monger. 

Mr. Lyle seated himself by the Duchess, and 
encouraged by her amenity, and speaking in 
whispers, became animated and agreeable, occa- 
sionally patting the lap-dog. Coningsby stood by 
the singers, or talked with them when the music 
had ceased; and Henry Sydney looked over a 
volume of Strutt’s Sports and Pastimes, occa- 
sionally, without taking his eyes off the volume, 




ST. GENEVIEVE. 


49 


calling the attention of his friends to his discov- 
eries. 

Mr. Lyle rose to depart, for he had some 
miles to return ; he came forward with some hesi- 
tation, to hope that Coningsby would visit his 
bloodhounds, which Lord Henry had told him 
Coningsby had expressed a wish to do. Lady 
Everingham remarked that she had not been at 
St. Genevieve since she was a girl, and it ap- 
peared Lady Theresa had never visited it. Lady 
Everingham proposed that they should all ride 
over on the morrow, and she appealed to her 
husband for his approbation, instantly given, for 
though she loved admiration, and he apparently 
was an iceberg, they were really devoted to each 
other. Then there was a consultation as to their 
arrangements. The Duchess would drive over 
in her pony chaise with Theresa. The Duke, as 
usual, had affairs that would occupy him. The 
rest were to ride. It was a happy suggestion, all 
anticipated pleasure ; and the evening terminated 
with the prospect of what Lady Everingham 
called an adventure. 

The ladies themselves soon withdrew; the 
gentlemen lingered for awhile ; the Duke took up 
his candle, and bid his guests good-night ; Lord 
Everingham drank a glass of Seltzer water, nod- 
ded, and vanished. Lord Henry and his friend 
sat up talking over the past. They were too 
young to call them old times ; and yet what a 
life seemed to have elapsed since they had quit- 
ted Eton, dear old Eton ! Their boyish feelings, 
and still latent boyish character, developed with 
their reminiscences. 

“ Do you remember Bucknall? Which Buck- 
nail? The eldest: I saw him the other day at 
Nottingham ; he is in the Rifles. Do you remem- 
ber that day at Sirly Hall, that Paulet had that 
row with Dickinson ? Did you like Dickinson ? 
Hum ! Paulet was a good fellow. I tell you 
who was a good fellow — Paulet’s little cousin. 
What ! Augustus Le Grange ? Oh ! I liked Augus- 
tus Le Grange. I wonder where Buckhurst is ? I 
had a letter from him the other day. He has 
gone with his uncle to Paris. We shall find him 
at. Cambridge in October. I suppose you know 
Millbank has gone to Oriel. Has he, though ! I 
wonder who will have our room at Cookesley’s ? 
Cookesley was a good fellow ! Oh, capital ! 
How well he behaved when there was that row 
about our going out with the hounds ! Do you 
remember Vere’s face? It makes me laugh now 
when I think of it. I tell you who was a good 
fellow — Kangaroo Gray ; I liked him. I don’t 
know any fellow who sang a better song ! ” 

“ By the bye,” said Coningsby, “ what sort of 
fellow is Eustace Lyle ? I rather liked his look.” 

“ Oh ! I will tell you all about him,” said 
Lord Henry. “ He is a great ally of mine, and I 
think you will like him very much. It is a Ro- 
man Catholic family, about the oldest we have in 
the county, and the wealthiest. You see, Lyle’s 
father was the most violent ultra Whig, and so 
were all Eustace’s guardians ; but the moment 
he came of age, he announced that he should not 
mix himself up with either of the parties in the 
county, and that his tenantry might act exactly 
as they thought fit. My father thinks, of course, 
that Lyle is a Conservative, and that he only 
waits the occasion to come forward ; but he is 
4 


quite wrong. I know Lyle well, and he speaks 
to me without disguise. You see ’tis an old 
Cavalier family, and Lyle has all the opinions and 
feelings of his race. He will not ally himself 
with anti-monarchists, and democrats, and infi- 
dels, and sectarians ; at the same time, why should 
he support a party who pretend to oppose these, 
but who never lose an opportunity of insulting 
his religion, and would deprive him, if possible, 
of the advantages of the very institutions w'hich 
his family assisted in establishing?” 

“ Why, indeed ? Iam glad to have made his 
acquaintance,” said Coningsby. “ Is he clever ? ” 
“I think so,” said Lord Henry. “He is the 
most shy fellow, especially among women, that I 
ever knew, but he is very popular in the county. 
He does an amazing deal of good, and is one of 
the best riders we have. My father says, the 
very best ; bold, but so very certain.” 

“ He is older than we are ? ” 

“ My senior by a year : he is just of age.” 

“ Oh, ah ! twenty-one. A year younger than 
Gaston de Foix when he won Ravenna, and four 
years younger than John of Austria when he won 
Lepanto,” observed Coningsby, musingly. “ I 
vote we go to bed, old fellow ! ” 


CHAPTER IY. 

In a valley, not far from the margin of a 
beautiful river, raised on a lofty and artificial ter- 
race at the base of a range of wooded heights, 
was a pile of modern building in the finest style 
of Christian architecture. It was of great extent 
and richly decorated. Built of a white and glit- 
tering stone, it sparkled with its pinnacles in the 
sunshine as it rose in strong relief against its 
verdant background. The winding valley, which 
was studded, but not too closely studded, with 
clumps of old trees, formed for a great extent on 
either side of the mansion a grassy demesne, 
which was called the Lower Park ; but it was a 
region bearing the name of the Upper Park, that 
was the peculiar and most picturesque feature of 
this splendid residence. The wooded heights 
that formed the valley were not, as they ap- 
peared, a range of hills. Their crest was only 
the abrupt termination of a vast and enclosed 
table-land, abounding in all the qualities of the 
ancient chase : turf and trees, a wilderness of 
underwood, and a vast spread of gorse and fern. 
The deer, that abounded, lived here in a world 
as savage as themselves : trooping down in the 
evening to the river. Some of them, indeed, 
were ever in sight of those who were in the val- 
ley, and you might often observe various groups 
clustered on the green heights above the mansion, 
the effect of which w r as most inspiriting and 
graceful. Sometimes in the twilight, a solitary 
form, magnified by the illusive hour, might be 
seen standing on the brink of the steep, large 
and black against the clear sky. 

We have endeavored slightly to sketch St. 
Genevieve as it appeared to our friends from 
Beaumanoir, winding into the valley the day after 
Mr. Lyle had dined with them. The valley 
opened for about half a mile opposite the man- 
sion, which gave to the dwellers in it a view over 


50 


CONINGSBY. 


an extensive and richly-cultivated country. It 
was through this district that the party from 
Beaumanoir had pursued their way. The first 
glance at the building, its striking situation, its 
beautiful form, its brilliant color, its great extent, 
a gathering as it seemed of galleries, halls, and 
chapels, mullioned windows, portals of clustered 
columns, and groups of airy pinnacles and fret- 
work spires, called forth a general cry of wonder 
and of praise. . • 

The ride from Beaumanoir had been delight- 
ful ; the breath of summer in every breeze, the 
light of summer on every tree. The gay laugh 
of Lady Everingham rang frequently in the air ; 
often were her sunny eyes directed to Coningsby, 
as she called his attention to some fair object or 
some pretty effect. She played the hostess of 
Nature, and introduced him to all the beauties. 

Mr. Lyle had recognised them. He cantered 
forward with greetings on a fat little fawn-colored 
pony, with a long white mane and white flowing 
tail, and the wickedest eye in the world. He 
rode by the side of the Duchess, and indicated 
their gently-descending route. 

They arrived, and the peacocks, who were 
sunning themselves on the turrets, expanded 
their plumage to welcome them. 

“ I can remember the old house,” said the 
Duchess, as she took Mr. Lyle’s arm ; “ and I 
am happy to see the new one. The Duke had 
prepared me for much beauty, but the reality 
exceeds his report.” 

They entered by a short corridor into a large 
hall. They would have stopped to admire its 
rich roof, its gallery and screen ; but their host 
suggested that they should refresh themselves 
after their ride, and they followed him through 
several apartments into a spacious chamber, its 
oaken panels covered with a series of interesting 
pictures, representing the siege of St. Genevieve 
by the Parliament forces in 1643 : the various 
assaults and sallies, and the final discomfiture of 
the rebels. In all these, figured a brave and 
graceful Sir Eustace Lyle, in cuirass and buff jer- 
kin, with gleaming sword and flowing plume. 
The sight of these pictures was ever a source of 
great excitement to Henry Syduey, who always 
lamented his ill-luck in not living in such days ; 
nay, would insist that all others must equally de- 
plore their evil destiny. 

“ See, Coningsby, this battery on the Upper 
Park,” said Lord Henry. “ This did the busi- 
ness ; how it rakes up the valley ; Sir Eustace 
works it himself. Mother, what a pity Beauma- 
noir was not besieged ! ” 

“ It may be,” said Coningsby. 

“ I always fancy a siege must be so very inter- 
esting,” said Lady Everingham. “ It must be 
so exciting.” 

“ I hope the next siege may be Beaumanoir, 
instead of St. Genevieve,” said Lyle, laughing ; 
“ as Henry Sydney has such a military predispo- 
sition. Duchess, you said the other day that you 
liked Malvoisie, and here is some.” 

“ Now broack me a cask of Malvoisie, 

Bring pasty from the doe ; ” 

said the Duchess. “ That has been my lunch- 
eon.” 

“ A poetic repast,” said Lady Theresa. 


“ Their breeds of sheep must have been very 
inferior in old days,” said Lord Everingham, “ as 
they made such a noise about their venison. For 
my part I consider it a thing as much gone by 
as tilts and tournaments.” 

“ I am very sorry that they have gone by,” 
said Lady Theresa. 

“ Everything has gone by that is beautiful,” 
said Lord Henry. 

“ Life is much easier,” said Lord Everingham. 

“ Life easy ! ” said Lord Henry. “ Life ap- 
pears to me to be a fierce struggle.” 

“ Manners are easy,” said Coningsby, “ and 
life is hard.” 

“And I wish to see things exactly the re- 
verse,” said Lord Henry. “ The means and 
modes of subsistence less difficult : the conduct 
of life more ceremonious.” 

“ Civilization has no time for ceremony,” said 
Lord Everingham. 

“ How very sententious you all are ! ” said his 
wife. “ I want to see the hall and many other 
things.” And they all rose. 

There were indeed many other things to see : 
a long gallery, rich in ancestral portraits, speci- 
mens of art and costume from Holbein to Law- 
rence ; courtiers of the Tudors, and cavaliers of 
the Stuarts, terminating in red-coated squires 
fresh from the field, and gentlemen buttoned up 
in black coats, and sitting in library chairs with 
their backs to a crimson curtain. Woman, how- 
ever, is always charming ; and the present gen- 
eration may view their mothers painted by Law- 
rence, as if they were patronesses of Almacks’ ; 
or their grandmothers by Reynolds, as Robinettas 
caressing birds — with as much delight as they 
gaze on the dewy-eyed matrons of Lely, and the 
proud bearing of the hei'oines of Yandyke. But 
what interested them more than the gallery, or 
the rich saloons, or even the baronial hall, was 
the chapel, in which art had exhausted all its in- 
vention, and wealth offered all its resources. The 
walls and vaulted roofs entirely painted in encaus- 
tic by the first artists of Germany, and represent- 
ing the principal events of the second Testament, 
the splendor of the mosaic pavement, the rich- 
ness of the painted windows, the sumptuousness 
of the altar, crowned by a masterpiece of Carlo 
Dolce and surrounded by a silver rail, the tone of 
rich and solemn light that pervaded all, and 
blended all the various sources of beauty into one 
absorbing and harmonious whole : all combined 
to produce an effect which stilled them into a 
silence that lasted for some minutes, until the 
ladies breathed their feelings in an almost inar- 
ticulate murmur of reverence and admiration ; 
while a tear stole to the eye of the enthusiastic 
Henry Sydney. 

Leaving the chapel, they sauntered through 
the gardens, until, arriving at their limit, they 
were met by the prettiest sight in the world ; a 
group of little pony chairs, each drawn by a little 
fat fawn-colored pony, like the one that Mr. Lyle 
had been riding. Lord Henry drove his mother ; 
Lord Everingham, Lady Theresa ; Lady Evering- 
ham was attended by Coningsby. Their host 
cantered by the Duchess’s side, and along wind- 
ing roads of very easy ascent, leading through 
beautiful woods, and offering charming land- 
scapes, they reached in due time the Upper Park. 


ALMSGIVING DAY. 


51 


“ One sees our host to very great advantage 
in his own house,” said Lady Everingham. “ lie 
is scarcely the same person. I have not observed 
him once blush. He speaks and moves with ease. 
It is a pity that he is not more graceful. Above 
all things I like a graceful man.” 

“ That chapel,” said Coningsby, “ was a fine 
thing.” 

“ Very ! ” said Lady Everingham. “ Did you 
observe the picture over the altar — the Virgin 
with blue eyes? I never observed blue eyes be- 
fore in such a picture. What is your favorite 
color for eyes ? ” 

Coningsby felt embarrassed : he said some- 
thing rather pointless about admiring everything 
that is beautiful. 

“ But every one has a favorite style ; I want 
to know yours. Regular features — do you like 
regular features ? Or is it expression that pleases 
you ? ” 

“Expression; I think I like expression. Ex- 
pression must be always delightful.” 

“ Do you dance ? ” 

“No; I am no great dancer. I fear I have 
very few accomplishments. I am very fond of 
fencing.” 

“ I don’t fence,” said Lady Everingham, with 
a smile. “ But I think you are right not to 
dance. It is not in your way. You are very 
ambitious, I believe ? ” she added. 

“ I was not aware of it ; everybody is ambi- 
tious.” 

“ You see I know something of your charac- 
ter. Henry has spoken of you to me a great 
deal; long before we met — met again, I should 
say, for we are very old friends, remember. Do 
you know your career very much interests me ? 
I like ambitious men.” 

There is something very fascinating in the 
first idea that your career interests a charming 
woman. Coningsby felt that he was perhaps 
driving a Madame de Longueville. A woman 
who likes ambitious men must be no ordinary 
character; clearly a sort of heroine. At this 
moment they reached the Upper Park, and the 
novel landscape changed the current of their re- 
marks. 

Far as the eye could reach there spread before 
them a savage sylvan scene. It wanted, perhaps, 
undulation of surface, but that deficiency was 
greatly compensated for by the multitude and 
prodigious size of the trees ; they were the lar- 
gest, indeed, that could well be met with in Eng- 
land ; and there is no part of Europe where the 
timber is so huge. The broad interminable 
glades, the vast avenues, the quantity of deer 
browsing or bounding in all directions, the thick- 
ets of yellow gorse and green fern, and the breeze 
that even in the stillness of summer was ever 
playing over this table-land, all produced an an- 
imated and renovating scene. It was like sud- 
denly visiting another country, living among other 
manners, and breathing another air. They stopped 
for a few minutes at a pavilion built for the pur- 
poses of the chase, and then returned, all gratified 
by this visit to what appeared to be the higher 
regions of the earth. 

As they approached the brow of the hill that 
hung over St. Genevieve, they heard the great 
bell sound 


“ What is that ? ” asked the Duchess. 

“ It is almsgiving day,” replied Mr. Lyle, 
looking a little embarrassed, and for the first 
time blushing. “ The people of the parishes with 
which I am connected come to St. Genevieve 
twice a-week at this hour.” 

“ And what is your system ? ” inquired Lord 
Everingham, who had stopped, interested by the 
scene. “ What check have you ? ” 

“ The rectors of the different parishes grant 
certificates to those who in their belief merit 
bounty according to the rules which I have es- 
tablished. These are again visited by my al- 
moner, who countersigns the certificate, and then 
they present it at the postern-gate. The certifi- 
cate explains the nature of their necessities, and 
my steward acts on his discretion.” 

“ Mamma, I see them ! ” exclaimed Lady 
Theresa. 

“Perhaps your Grace may think that they 
might be relieved without all this cefemony,” said 
Mr. Lyle, extremely confused. “ But I agree with 
Henry and Mr. Coningsby, that Ceremony is not, 
as too commonly supposed, an idle form. I wish 
the people constantly and visibly to comprehend 
that Property is their protector and their friend.” 

“ My reason is with you, Mr. Lyle,” said the 
Duchess, “ as well as my heart.” 

They came along the valley, a procession of 
Nature, whose groups an artist might have stud- 
ied. The old man, who loved the pilgrimage 
too much to avail himself of the privilege of a 
substitute accorded to his grey hairs, came in 
person with his grandchild and his staff. There 
also came the widow with her child at the breast, 
and others clinging to her form ; some sorrowful 
faces, and some pale ; many a serious one, and 
now and then a frolic glance ; many a dame in 
her red cloak, and many a maiden with her light 
basket ; curly-headed urchins with demure looks, 
and sometimes a stalwart form baffled for a time 
of the labor which he desired. But not a heart 
there that did not bless the bell that sounded 
from the tower of St. Genevieve ! 


CHAPTER Y. 

“ My fathers perilled their blood and fortunes 
for the cause of the Sovereignty, and Church of 
England,” said Lyle to Coningsby, as they were 
lying stretched out on the sunny turf in the park 
of Beaumanoir, “and I inherit their passionate 
convictions. They were Catholics, as their de- 
scendant. No doubt they would have been glad 
to see their ancient faith predominant in their an- 
cient land ; but they bowed, as I bow, to an ad- 
verse and apparently irrevocable decree. But if 
we could not have the Church of our fathers, we 
honored and respected the Church of their chil- 
dren. It was at least a Church ; a “ Catholic and 
Apostolic Church,” as it daily declares itself. 
Besides, it was our friend. When we were per- 
secuted by Puritanic Parliaments, it was the 
Sovereign and the Church of England that inter- 
posed, with the certainty of creating against them- 
selves odium and mistrust, to shield us from the 
dark and relentless bigotry of Calvinism.” 

“ I believe,” said Coningsby, “ that if Charles 


52 


CONINGSBY. 


1. had hanged all the Catholic priests that Parlia- 1 
ment petitioned him to execute, he would never 
have lost his crown.” 

“You were mentioning my father,” continued 
Lyle. “ He certainly was a Whig. Galled by 
political exclusion, he connected himself with that 
party in the State, which began to intimate eman- 
cipation. After all, they did not emancipate us. 
It was the fall of the Papacy in England that 
founded the Whig aristocracy ; a fact that must 
always lie at the bottom of their hearts, as, I as- 
sure you, it does of mine.” 

“ I gathered at an early age,” continued Lyle? 

“ that I was expected to inherit my father’s po- 
litical connections with the family estates. Un- 
der ordinary circumstances this* would prob- 
ably have occurred. In times that did not force 
one to ponder, it is not likely I should have re- 
coiled from uniting myself with a party formed 
of the best families in England, and ever famous 
for accomplished men and charming women. But 
I enter life in the midst of a convulsion in which \ 
the very principles of our political and social 
systems are called in question. I cannot unite 
myself with the party of destruction. It is an 
operative cause alien to my being. What, then 
offers itself? The Duke talks to me of Conser- 
vative principles ; but he does not inform me 
what they are. I observe, indeed, a party in the 
State whose rule it is to consent to no change, 
until it is clamorously called for, and then in- 
stantly to yield ; but those are Concessionary, not 
Conservative principles. This party treats insti- 
tutions as we do our pheasants, they preserve 
only to destroy them. But is there a statesman 
among these Conservatives who offers us a dogma 
for a guide, or defines any great political truth 
which we should aspire to establish ? It seems 
to me a barren thing — this Conservatism — an un- 
happy cross-breed ; the mule of politics that en- 
genders nothing. What do you think of all this, 
Coningsby ? I assure you I feel confused, per- 
plexed, harassed. I know I have public duties to 
perform ; I am, in fact, every day of my life so- 
licited by all parties to throw the weight of my 
influence in one scale or another ; but I am para- 
lysed. I often wish I had no position in the 
country. The sense of its responsibility depresses 
me ; makes me miserable. I speak to you with- 
out reserve ; with a frankness which our short 
acquaintance scarcely authorises ; but Henry 
Sydney has so often talked to me of you, and I 
have so long wished to know you, that I open my 
heart without restraint.” 

“My dear fellow,” said Coningsby, “you have 
but described my feelings when you depictured 
your own. My mind on these subjects has long 
been a chaos. I float in a sea of troubles, and 
should long ago have been wrecked had I not 
been sustained by a profound, however vague, 
conviction, that there are still great truths, if we 
could but work them out ; that Government, for 
instance, should be loved and not hated, and that 
Religion should be a faith and not a form.” 

The moral influence of residence furnishes 
some of the most interesting traits of our national 
manners. The presence of this power was very 
apparent throughout the district that surrounded 
Beaumanoir. The ladies of that house were 
deeply sensible of the responsibility of their posi- 


tion ; thoroughly comprehending their duties, they 
fulfilled them without affectation, with earnest- 
ness, and with that effect which springs from a 
knowledge of the subject. The consequences 
were visible in the tone of the peasantry being 
superior to that which we too often witness. The 
ancient feudal feeling that lingers in these se- 
questered haunts, is an instrument which, when 
skilfully wielded, may be productive of vast social 
benefit. The Duke understood this well ; and his 
family had imbibed all his views, and seconded 
them. Lady Everingham, once more in the scene 
of her past life, resumed the exercise of gentle 
offices, as if she had never ceased to be a daughter 
of the house, and as if another domain had not 
its claims upon her solicitude. Coningsby was 
often the companion of herself and her sister in 
their pilgrimages of charity and kindness. He 
admired the graceful energy, and thorough ac- 
quaintance with details, with which Lady Evering- 
ham superintended schools, organised societies of 
relief, and the discrimination which she brought 
to bear upon individual cases of suffering or mis- 
fortune. He was deeply interested as he watched 
the magic of her manner, as she melted the ob- 
durate, inspired the slothful, consoled the afflicted, 
and animated with her smiles and ready phrase 
the energetic and the dutiful. Nor on these oc- 
casions was Lady Theresa seen under less favor- 
able auspices. Without the vivacity of her sister, 
there was in her demeanor a sweet seriousness 
of purpose that was most winning ; and sometimes 
a burst of energy, a trait of decision, which 
strikiugly contrasted with the somewhat over- 
controlled character of her life in drawing-rooms. 

In the society of these engaging companions, 
time for Coningsby glided away in a course which 
he sometimes wished nothing might disturb. 
Apart from them, he frequently felt himself pen- 
sive and vaguely disquieted. Even the society 
of Henry Sydney or Eustace Lyle, much as under 
ordinary circumstances they would have been 
adapted to his mood, did not compensate for the 
absence of that indefinite, that novel, that strange, 
yet sweet excitement, which he felt, he knew not 
exactly how or why, stealing over his senses. 
Sometimes the countenance of Theresa Sydney 
flitted over his musing vision; sometimes the 
merry voice of Lady Everingham haunted his ear. 
But to be their companion in ride or ramble ; to 
avoid any arrangement which for many hours 
should deprive him of their presence ; was every 
day with Coningsby a principal object. 

One day he had been out shooting rabbits 
with Lyle and Henry Sydney, and returned with 
them late to Beaumanoir to dinner. He had not 
enjoyed his sport, and he had not shot at all well. 
He had been dreamy, silent, had deeply felt the 
want of Lady Everingham’s conversation, that 
was ever so poignant and so interestingly per- 
sonal to himself ; one of the secrets of her sway, 
though Coningsby was not then quite conscious 
of it. Talk to a man about himself, and he is 
generally captivated. That is the real way to 
win him. The only difference between men and 
women in this respect is, that most women are 
vain, and some men are not. There are some 
men who have no self-love; but if they have, 
female vanity is but a trifling and airy passion 
compared with the vast voracity of appetite which 


LADY EVERINGHAM AND MR. MELTON. 


53 


in the sterner sex can swallow anything, and al- 
ways crave for more. 

When Coningsby entered the drawing-room, 
there seemed a somewhat unusual bustle in the 
room, but as the twilight had descended, it was 
at first rather difficult to distinguish who was 
present. He soon perceived that there were 
strangers. A gentleman of pleasing appearance 
was near a sofa on which the Duchess and Lady 
Everingham were seated, and discoursing with 
some volubility. His phrases seemed to com- 
mand attention ; his audience had an animated 
glance, eyes sparkling with intelligence and in- 
terest ; not a word was disregarded. Coningsby 
did not advance as was his custom ; he had a 
sort of instinct, that the stranger was discours- 
ing of matters of which he knew nothing. He 
turned to a table, he took up a book, which he 
began to read upside downwards. A hand was 
lightly placed on his shoulder. He looked round, 
it was another stranger ; who said, however, in a 
tone of familiar friendliness — 

“ How do you do, Coningsby ? ” 

It was a young man about four-and-twenty 
years of age, very tall, very good-looking. Old 
recollections, his intimate greeting, a strong family 
likeness, helped Coningsby to conjecture correctly 
who was the person who addressed him. It was, 
indeed, the eldest son of the Duke, the Marquis 
of Beaumanoir, who had arrived at his father's 
unexpectedly with his friend, Mr. Melton, on 
their way to the north. 

Mr. Melton was a gentleman of the highest 
fashion, and a very great favorite in society. He 
was about thirty, good-looking, with an air that 
commanded attention, and manners, though 
facile, sufficiently finished. He was very com- 
municative, though calm, and, without being wit- 
tv, had at his service a turn of phrase, acquired 
by practice and success, which was, or which 
always seemed to be, poignant. The ladies 
seemed especially to be delighted at his arrival. 
He knew everything of everybody they cared 
about ; and Coningsby listened in silence to names 
which for the first time reached his ears, but 
which seemed to excite great interest. Mr. Melton 
frequently addressed his most lively observations 
and his most sparkling anecdotes to Lady Ever- 
ingham, who evidently relished all that he said, 
and returned him in kind. 

Throughout the dinner Lady Everingham and 
Mr. Melton maintained what appeared a most en- 
tertaining conversation, principally about things 
and persons which did not in any way interest 
our hero ; who, however, had the satisfaction of 
hearing Lady Everingham, in the drawing-room, 
say in a careless tone to the Duchess — 

“ I am so glad, mamma, that Mr. Melton has 
come ; we wanted some amusement.” 

What a confession ! What a revelation to 
Coningsby of his infinite insignificance ! Conings- 
by entertained a great aversion for Mr. Melton, 
but felt his spirit unequal to the social contest. 
The genius of the untutored inexperienced youth 
quailed before that of the long-practised, skilful 
man of the world. What was the magic of this 
man ? What was the secret of this ease, that 
nothing could disturb, and yet was not deficient 
in deference and good taste ? And then his dress, 
it seemed fashioned by some unearthly artist ; 


yet it wa3 impossible to detect the unobtrusive 
causes of the general effect that was irresistible. 
Coningsby’s coat was made by Stultz; almost 
every fellow in the sixth form had his coats made by 
Stultz ; yet Coningsby fancied that his own gar- 
ment looked as if it had been furnished by some 
rustic slop-seller. He began to wonder where 
Mr. Melton got his boots from, and glanced at 
his own, which, though made in St. James’s 
Street, seemed to him to have a cloddish air. 

Lady Everingham was determined that Mr. 
Melton should see Beaumanoir to the greatest 
advantage. Mr. Melton had never been there be- 
fore, except at Christmas, with the house full of 
visitors and factitious gaiety. Now he was to see 
the country. Accordingly, there were long rides 
every day, which Lady Everingham called expe- 
ditions, and which generally produced some slight 
incident which she styled an adventure. She 
was very kind to Coningsby, but had no time to 
indulge in the lengthened conversations which he 
had previously found so magical. Mr. Melton 
was always on the scene, the monopolising hero, 
it would seem, of every thought, and phrase, and 
plan. Coningsby began to think that Beauma- 
noir was not so delightful a place as he had im- 
agined. He began to think that he had stayed 
there perhaps too long. He had received a let- 
ter from Mr. Rigby, to inform him that he was 
expected at Coningsby Castle at the beginning of 
September, to meet Lord Monmouth, who had re- 
turned to England, and for grave and special 
reasons was about to reside at his chief seat, 
which he had not visited for many years. Con- 
ingsby had intended to have remained at Beau- 
manoir until that time ; but suddenly it occurred 
to him, that the Age of Ruins was past, and that 
he ought to seize the opportunity of visiting 
Manchester, which was in the same county as 
the Castle of his grandfather. So difficult is it to 
speculate upon events ! Muse as we may, we are 
the creatures of circumstances ; and the unex- 
pected arrival of a London dandy at the country 
seat of an English nobleman sent this representa- 
tive of the New Generation, fresh from Eton, 
nursed in prejudices, yet with a mind predisposed 
to inquiry and prone to meditation, to a scene 
apt to stimulate both intellectual processes ; 
which demanded investigation and induced 
thought — the great Metropolis of Labor. 


B 0 OK IV. 

CHAPTER I. 

A great city, whose image dwells in the 
memory of man, is the type of some great idea. 
Rome represents conquest ; Faith hovers over the 
towers of Jerusalem ; and Athens embodies the 
pre-eminent quality of the antique world — Art. 

In modern ages, Commerce has created Lon- 
don ; while Manners, in the most comprehensive 
sense of the word, have long found a supreme capi- 
tal in the airy and bright-minded city of the Seine. 

What Art was to the ancient world, Science 
is to the modern : the distinctive faculty. In the 
minds of men the useful has succeeded to the 


54 


CONINGSBY. 


beautiful. Instead of the city of the Yiolet 
Crown, a Lancashire village has expanded into a 
mighty region of factories and warehouses. Yet 
rightly understood, Manchester is as great a 
human exploit as Athens. 

The inhabitants, indeed, are not so impressed 
with their idiosyncrasy as the countrymen of 
Pericles and Phidias. They do not fully com- 
pi’ehend the position which they occupy. It is 
the philosopher alone who can conceive the 
grandeur of Manchester, and the immensity of its 
future. There are yet great truths to tell, if we 
had either the courage to announce or the temper 
to receive them. 


CHAPTER II. 

A feeling of melancholy, even of uneasiness, 
attends our first entrance into a great town, es- 
pecially at night. Is it that the sense of all this 
vast existence with which we have no connexion, 
where we are utterly unknown, oppresses us with 
onr insignificance ? Is it that it is terrible to 
feel friendless where all have friends ? 

Yet reverse the picture. Behold a com- 
munity where you are unknown, but where you 
will be known, perhaps honored. A place where 
you have no friends, but where, also, you have 
no enemies. A spot that has hitherto been a 
blank in your thoughts, as you have been a 
cipher in its sensations, and yet a spot, perhaps, 
pregnant with your destiny ! 

There is, perhaps, no act of memory so pro- 
foundly interesting as to recall the careless mood 
and moment in which we have entered a town, a 
house, a chamber, on the eve of an acquaintance 
or an event, that have given a color and an im- 
pulse to our future life. 

What is this Fatality that men worship ? Is 
it a Goddess ? 

Unquestionably it is a power that acts mainly 
by female agents. Women are the Priestesses of 
Predestination. 

Man conceives Fortune, but Woman con- 
ducts it. 

It is the Spirit of Man that says, “ I will be 
great but it is the sympathy of Woman that 
usually makes him so. 

It was not the comely and courteous hostess 
of the Adelphi Hotel, Manchester, that gave occa- 
sion to these remarks, though she may deserve 
them, and though she was most kind to our Con- 
ingsby as he came in late at night very tired, and 
not in very good-humor. 

He had travelled the whole day through the 
great district of labor, his mind excited by strange 
sights, and at length wearied by their multiplica- 
tion. He had passed over the plains where iron 
and coal supersede turf and corn, dingy as the en- 
trance of Hades, and flaming with furnaces ; and 
now he was among illumined factories, with more 
windows than Italian palaces, and smoking chim- 
neys taller than Egyptian obelisks. Alone in the 
great metropolis of machinery itself, sitting down 
in a solitary coffee-room glaring with gas, with 
no appetite, a whirling head, and not a plan or 
purpose for the morrow, why was he there ? Be- 


cause a being, whose name even was unknown to 
him, had met him in a hedge ale-house during a 
thunder-storm, and told him that the Age of 
Ruins was past. 

Remarkable instance of the influence of an 
individual ; some evidence of the extreme sus- 
ceptibility of our hero. 

Even his bedroom was lit by gas. Wonderful 
city ! • That, however, could be got rid of. He 
opened the window. The summer air was sweet, 
even in this land of smoke and toil. He feels a 
sensation such as in Lisbon or Lima precedes an 
earthquake. The house appears to quiver. It is 
a sympathetic affection occasioned by a steam- 
engine in a neighboring factory. 

Notwithstanding, however, all these novel 
incidents, Coningsby slept the deep sleep of 
youth and health, of a brain which, however oc- 
casionally perplexed by thought, had never been 
harassed by anxiety. He rose early, freshened 
and in fine spirits. And by the time the devilled 
chicken and the buttered toast (that mysterious 
and incomparable luxury, which can only be ob- 
tained at an inn) had disappeared, he felt all the 
delightful excitement of travel. 

And now for action ! Not a letter had Con- 
ingsby ; not an individual in that vast city was 
known to him. He went to consult his kind host- 
ess, who smiled confidence. He was to mention 
her name at one place, his own at another. All 
would be right ; she seemed to have reliance in 
the destiny of such a nice young man. 

He saw all ; they were kind and hospitable to 
the young stranger, whose thought, and earnest- 
ness, and gentle manners, attracted them. One rec- 
ommended him to another ; all tried to aid and 
assist him. He entered chambers vaster than are 
told of in Arabian fable, and peopled with habi- 
tants more wondrous than Afrite or Peri. For there 
he beheld, in long-continued ranks, those myste- 
rious forms full of existence without life, that 
perform with facility, and in an instant, what man 
can fulfil only with difficulty and in days. A ma- 
chine is a slave that neither brings nor bears deg- 
radation : it is a being endowed with the greatest 
degree of energy, and acting under the greatest 
degree of excitement, yet free at the same time 
from all passion and emotion. It is, therefore, 
not only a slave, but a supernatural slave. And 
why should one say that the machine does not 
live ? It breathes, for its breath forms the atmos- 
phere of some towns. It moves with more regu- 
larity than man. And has it not a voice ? Does 
not the spindle sing like a merry girl at her work, 
and the steam-engine roar in jolly chorus, like a 
strong artisan handling his lusty tools, and gain- 
ing a fair day’s wages for a fair day’s toil ? 

Nor should the weaving-room be forgotten, 
where a thousand or fifteen hundred girls may be 
observed in their coral necklaces, working "like 
Penelope in the day-time ; some pretty, some 
pert, some graceful and jocund, some absorbed in 
their occupation ; a little serious some, few sad. 
And the cotton you have observed in its rude 
state, that you have seen the silent spinner 
change into thread, and the bustling weaver con- 
vert into cloth, you may now watch as in a mo- 
ment it is tinted with beautiful colors, or printed 
with fanciful patterns. And yet the mystery of 
mysteries is to view machines making machines ; 


MANCHESTER. 


55 


a spectacle that fills the miud with curious, and 
even awful speculation. 

From early morn to the late twilight, our 
Coningsby for several days devoted himself to the 
comprehension of Manchester. It was to him a 
new world, pregnant with new ideas, and sugges- 
tive of new trains of thought and feeling. In this 
unprecedented partnership between capital and 
science, working on a spot w'hich Nature had in- 
dicated as the fitting theatre of their exploits, he 
beheld a great source of the wealth of nations 
which had been reserved for these times, and he 
perceived that this wealth was rapidly developing 
classes whose power was very imperfectly rec- 
ognized in the constitutional scheme, and whose 
duties in the social system seemed altogether 
omitted. Young as he was, the bent of his mind, 
and the inquisitive spirit of the times, had suffi- 
ciently prepared him, not indeed to grapple with 
these questions, but to be sensible of their exist- 
ence, and to ponder. 

One evening, in the coffee-room of the hotel, 
having just finished his well-earned dinner, and 
relaxing his mind for the moment in a fresh re- 
search into the Manchester Guide, an individual, 
who had also been dining in the same apartment, 
rose from his table, and after lolling over the 
empty fire-place, reading the framed announce- 
ments, looking at the directions of several letters 
waiting there for their owners, picking his teeth, 
turned round to Coningsby, and, with an air of 
uneasy familiarity, said : 

“First visit to Manchester, sir? ” 

“ My first.” 

“ Gentleman traveller, I presume ? ” 

“ I am a traveller,” said Coningsby. 

“ Hem ! — From south ? ” 

“From the south.” 

“ And pray, sir, how did you find business as 
you came along ? Brisk, I dare say. And yet 
there is something, a sort of a something ; didn’t 
it strike you, sir, there was a something? A 
deal of queer paper about, sir ? ” 

“ I fear you are speaking on a subject of 
which I know nothing,” said Coningsby, smiling ; 
“ I do not understand business at all ; though I 
am not surprised that, being at Manchester, you 
should suppose so.” 

“ Ah ! not in business. Hem ! Professional ? ” 
“No,” said Coningsby, “I am nothing.” 

“ Ah ! an independent gent ; hem ! and a very 
pleasant thing, too. Pleased with Manchester, I 
dare say ? ” continued the stranger. 

“ And astonished,” said Coningsby ; “ I think 
in the whole course of my life, I never saw so 
much to admire.” 

“ Seen all the lions, have no doubt? ” 

“ I think I have seen everything,” said Con- 
ingsby, rather eager and with some pride. 

“Very well, very well,” exclaimed the 
stranger, in a patronising tone. “ Seen Mr. Bur- 
ley’s weaving-room, I dare say ? ” 

“ Oh ! isn’t it wonderful ? ” said Coningsby. 
“A great many people,” said the stranger, 
with a rather supercilious smile. 

“ But after all,” said Coningsby, with anima- 
tion, “ it is the machinery without any interposi- 
tion of manual power that overwhelms me. It 
haunts me in my dreams,” continued Coningsby ; 
“ I see cities peopled with machines. Certainly 


Manchester is the most wonderful city of modern 
times ! ” 

The stranger stared a little at the enthusiasm 
of his companion, and then picked his teeth. 

“Of all the remarkable things here,” said 
Coningsby, “ what on the whole, sir, do you look 
upon as the most so ? ” 

“ In the way of machinery ? ” asked the stran- 
ger. 

“ In the way of machinery.” 

“ Why, in the way of machinery, you know,” 
said the stranger, very quietly, “ Manchester is a 
dead letter.” 

“ A dead letter ! ” said Coningsby. 

“ Dead and buried,” said the stranger, accom- 
panying his words with that peculiar application 
of his thumb to his nose, that signifies so elo- 
quently that all is up. 

“You astonish me!” said Coningsby. 

“ It’s a booked place though,” said the stran- 
ger, “ and no mistake. We have all of us a very 
great respect for Manchester, in course ; look upon 
her as a sort of mother, and all that sort of thing. 
But she is behind the times, sir, and that won’t 
do in this age. The long and short of it is, Man- 
chester is gone by.” 

“ I thought her only fault might be she was 
too much in advance of the rest of the country,” 
said Coningsby, very innocently. 

“ If you want to see life,” said the stranger, 
“go to Staley-bridge or Bolton. There’s high 
pressure.” 

“ But the population of Manchester is increas- 
ing,” said Coningsby. 

“Why, yes; not a doubt. You see we have 
all of us a great respect for the town. It is a sort 
of metropolis of this district, and there is a good 
deal of capital in the place. And it has some 
first-rate institutions. There’s the Manchester 
Bank. That’s a noble institution, full of com- 
mercial enterprise ; understands the age, sir ; 
high-pressure to the back-bone. I came up to 
town to see the manager to-day. I am building 
a new mill now myself at Staley-bridge, and mean 
to open it by January, and when I do, I’ll give 
you leave to pay another visit to Mr. Burley’s 
weaving-room, with my compliments.” 

“ I am very sorry,” said Coningsby, “ that I 
have only another day left; but pray tell me, 
what -would you recommend me most to see with- 
in a reasonable distance of Manchester ? ” 

“ My mill is not finished,” said the stranger, 
musingly, “ and though there is still a great deal 
worth seeing at Staley-bridge, still you had better 
wait to see my new mill. And Bolton, let me 
see ; Bolton — there is nothing at Bolton that can 
hold up its head for a moment against my new 
mill; but then it is not finished. Well, well, let 
us see. What a pity this is not the 1st of Janu- 
ary, and then my new mill would be at work ! I 
should like to see Mr. Burley’s face, or even Mr. 
Ashworth’s, that day. And the Oxford Road 
Works, where they are always making a little 
change, bit by bit reform, eh ! not a very particu- 
lar fine appetite, I suspect, for dinner, at the Ox- 
ford Road Works, the day they hear of my new 
mill being at work. But you want to see some- 
thing tip-top. Well, there’s Millbank; that’s 
regular slap-up — quite a sight, regular lion ; if I 
were you I would see Millbank.” 


56 


CONINGSBY. 


“ Millbank ! ” said Coningsby ; “ wliat Mill- 
bank ? ” 

“ Millbank of Millbank, made the place — made 
it himself. About three miles from Bolton ; — 
train to-morrow morning at 1 - 25, — get a fly at the 
station — aud you will be at Millbank by 8-40.” 

“ Unfortunately I am engaged to-morrow morn- 
ing,” said Coningsby, “ and yet I am most anx- 
ious — particularly anxious, to see Millbank.” 

“ Well, there’s a late train,” said the stranger, 
“ 3-15 ; you will be there by 4-30.” 

“ I think I could manage that,” said Con- 
ingsby. 

“Do,” said the stranger; “and if you ever 
find yourself at Staley-bridge, I shall be very 
happy to be of service. I must be off now. My 
train goes at 9-15.” And he presented Coningsby 
with liis card as he wished him good night. 

Mr. G. 0. A. HEAD, 
Staley-Bridge. 


CHAPTER III. 

In a green valley of Lancaster, contiguous to 
that district of factories on which we have already 
touched, a clear and powerful stream flows through 
a broad meadow land. Upon its margin, adorned, 
rather than shadowed, by some very old elm-trees, 
for they are too distant to serve except for orna- 
ment, rises a vast deep red brick pile, which 
though formal and monotonous in its general 
character, is not without a certain beauty of pro- 
portion and an artist-like finish in its occasional 
masonry. The front, which is of great extent, 
and covered with many tiers of small windows, 
is flanked by two projecting wings in the same 
style, which form a large court, completed by a 
dwarf wall crowned with a light, and rather ele- 
gant railing ; in the centre, the principal entrance, 
a lofty portal of bold and beautiful design, sur- 
mounted by a statue of Commerce. 

This building, not without a degree of dignity, 
is what is technically, and not very felicitously, 
called a mill ; always translated by the French 
in their accounts of our manufacturing riots, 
“ moulin ; ” and which really was the principal 
factory of Oswald Millbank, the father of that 
youth, whom, we trust, our readers have not quite 
forgotten. 

At some little distance, and rather withdrawn 
from the principal stream, were two other smaller 
structures of the same style. About a quarter of 
a mile further on, appeared a village of not incon- 
siderable size, and remarkable from the neatness 
and even picturesque character of its architecture, 
and the gay gardens that surrounded it. On a 
sunny knoll in the background rose a church, in 
the best style of Christian architecture, and near 
it was a clerical residence and a school-house of 
similar design. The village, too, could boast of 
another public building; an Institute where there 
were a library and a lecture-room ; and a reading- 
hall, which any one might frequent at certain 
hours, and under reasonable regulations. 

On the other side of the principal factory, 
but more remote, about half-a-mile up the valley, 
surrounded by beautiful meadows, and built on 
an agreeable and well-wooded elevation, was the 


mansion of the mill-owner; apparently a com- 
modious and not inconsiderable dwelling-house, 
built in what is called a villa style, with a variety 
of gardens and conservatories. The atmosphere 
of this somewhat striking settlement was not dis- 
turbed and polluted by the dark vapor, which, to 
the shame of Manchester, still infests that great 
town, for Mr. Millbank, who liked nothing so 
much as an invention, unless it were an experi- 
ment, took care to consume his own smoke. 

The sun was declining when Mr. Coningsby 
arrived at Millbank, and the gratification which 
he experienced on first beholding it, was not a 
little diminished, when, on inquiring at the vil- 
lage, he was informed that the hour was past for 
seeing the works. Determined not to relinquish 
his purpose without a struggle, he repaired to the 
principal mill, and entered the counting-house, 
which was situated in one of the wings of the 
building. 

“ Your pleasure, sir? ” said one of three indi- 
viduals sitting on high stools behind a high desk. 

“ I wish, if possible, to see the works.” 

“ Quite impossible, sir,” and the clerk, with- 
drawing his glance, continued his writing. “ No 
admission without an order, and no admission 
with an order after two o’clock.” 

“ I am very unfortunate,” said Coningsby. 

“ Sorry for it, sir. Give me ledger K. X., will 
you, Mr. Benson ? ” 

“ I think, Mr. Millbank would grant me per- 
mission,” said Coningsby. 

“ Yery likely, sir ; to-morrow. Mr. Millbank 
is there, sir, but very much engaged.” He 
pointed to an inner counting-house, and the glass 
doors permitted Coningsby to observe several in- 
dividuals in close converse. 

“ Perhaps his son, Mr. Oswald Millbank, is 
here ? ” inquired Coningsby. 

“ Mr. Oswald is in Belgium,” said the clerk. 

“ Would you give a message to Mr. Millbank, 
and say a friend of his son’s at Eton is here, and 
here only for a day, and wishes very much to see 
his works ? ” 

“Can’t possibly disturb Mr. Millbank now, 
sir ; but, if you like to sit down, you can wait 
and see him yourself.” 

Coningsby was content to sit down, though he 
grew very impatient at the end of a quarter of an 
hour. The ticking of the clock, the scratching 
of the pens of the three silent clerks, irritated 
him. At length, voices were heard, doors opened, 
and the clerk said, “Mr. Millbank is coining, 
sir,” but nobody came ; voices became hushed, 
doors were shut ; again nothing was heard, save 
the ticking of the clock and the scratching of the 
pen. 

At length, there was a general stir, and they 
all did come forth, Mr. Millbank among them, a 
well-proportioned, comely man, with a fair face 
inclining to. ruddiness, a quick, glancing, hazel 
eye, the whitest teeth, and short, curly, chestnut 
hair, here and there slightly tinged with grey. It 
was a visage of energy and" decision. 

He was about to pass through the counting- 
house with his companions, with whom his affairs 
were not concluded, when he observed Coningsby, 
who had risen. 

“ This gentleman wishes to see me ? ” he in- 
quired of his clerk, who bowed assent. 


MR. MILLBANK’S GUEST. 


57 


“ I shall be at your service, sir, the moment I 
have finished with these gentlemen.” 

“ The gentleman wishes to see the works, 
sir,” said the clerk. 

“ He can see the works at proper times,” said 
Mr. Millbank, somewhat pettishly ; “ tell him the 
regulations ; ” and he was about to go. 

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Coningsby, 
coming forward, and with an air of earnestness 
and grace that arrested the step of the manufac- 
turer. “ I am aware of the regulations, but 
would beg to be permitted to infringe them.” 

“ It cannot be, sir,” said Mr. Millbank, mov- 
ing. 

“ I thought, sir, being here only for a day, 
and as a friend of your son — ” 

Mr. Millbank stopped and said — 

“ Oh ! a friend of Oswald’s, eh ? What, at 
Eton ? ” 

“Yes, sir, at Eton; and I had hoped perhaps 
to have found him here.” 

“I am very much engaged, sir, at this mo- 
ment,” said Mr. Millbank ; “ I am sorry I cannot 
pay you any personal attention, but my clerk will 
show you every thing. Mr. Benson, let this gentle- 
man see every thing ; ” and he withdrew. 

“Be pleased to write your name here, sir,” 
said Mr. Benson, opening a book, and our friend 
wrote his name and the date of his visit to Mill- 
bank : 

“Harry Coningsby, Sept. 2, 1836.” 

Coningsby beheld in this great factory the 
last and the most refined inventions of mechani- 
cal genius. The building had been fitted up by 
a capitalist as anxious to raise a monument of 
the skill and power of his order, as to obtain a 
return for the great investment. 

“It is the glory of Lancashire!” exclaimed 
the enthusiastic Mr. Benson. 

The clerk spoke freely of his master, whom 
he evidently idolised, and his great achievements, 
and Coningsby encouraged him. He detailed to 
Coningsby the plans which Mr. Millbank had pur- 
sued, both for the moral and physical well-being 
of his people ; how he had built churches, and 
schools, and institutes ; houses and cottages on a 
new system of ventilation ; how he had allotted 
gardens ; established singing classes. 

“ Here is Mr. Millbank,” continued the clerk, 
as he and Coningsby, quitting the factory, re- 
entered the court. 

Mr. Millbank was approaching the factory, 
and the moment that he observed them he quick- 
ened his pace. 

“Mr. Coningsby?” he said when he reached 
them. His countenance was rather disturbed, 
and his voice a little trembled, and he looked on 
our friend with a glance scrutinising and serious. 
Coningsby bowed. 

“ I am sorry that you should have been re- 
ceived at this place with so little ceremony, sir,” 
said Mr. Millbank ; but had your name been 
mentioned, you would have found it cherished 
here.” He nodded to the clerk, who disappeared. 

Coningsby began to talk about the wonders 
of the factory, but Mr. Millbank recurred to 
other thoughts that were passing in his mind. 
He spoke of his son ; he expressed a kind re- 
proach that Coningsby should have thought of 


visiting this, part of the world without giving 
them some notice of his intention, that he might 
have been their guest, that Oswald might have 
been there to receive him, that they might have 
made arrangements that he should see everything, 
and in the best manner ; in short, that they might 
all have shown, however slightly, the deep sense 
of their obligations to him. 

“ My visit to Manchester, which led to this, 
was quite accidental,” said Coningsby. “ I am 
bound for the other division of the county, to 
pay a visit to ray grandfather, Lord Monmouth, 
but an irresistible desire came over me during 
my journey to view this famous district of in- 
dustry. It is some days since I ought to have 
found myself at Coningsby, and this is the reason 
why I am so pressed.” 

A cloud passed over the countenance of Mill- 
bank as the name of Lord Monmouth was men- 
tioned, but he said nothing. Turning towards 
Coningsby, with an air of kindness : 

“At least,” said he, “ let not Oswald hear that 
you did not taste our salt. Pray dine with me 
to-day ; there is yet an hour to dinner ; and as 
you have seen the factory, suppose we stroll to- 
gether through the village. 

* 

CHAPTER IV. 

The village clock struck five as Mr. Millbank 
and his guest entered the gardens of his mansion. 
Coningsby lingered a moment to admire the 
beauty and gay profusion of the flowers. 

“ Your situation,” said Coningsby, looking up 
the green and silent valley, “is absolutely poetic.” 

“ I try sometimes to fancy,” said Mr. Millbank, 
with a rather fierce smile, “ that I am in the New 
World.” 

They entered the house ; a capacious and 
classic hall, at the end a staircase in the Italian 
fashion. As they approached it, the sweetest and 
the clearest voice exclaimed from above, “ Papa ! 
papa ! ” and instantly a young girl came bounding 
down the stairs, but suddenly seeing a stranger 
with her father she stopped upon the landing- 
place, and was evidently on the point of as rap- 
idly retreating as she had advanced, when Mr. 
Millbank waved his hand to her and begged her 
to descend. She came down slowly; as she ap- 
proached them her father said, “ A friend you have 
often heard of, Edith ; this is Mr. Coningsby.” 

She started ; blushed very much ; and then, 
with a trembling and uncertain gait, advanced, 
put forth her hand with a wild unstudied grace, 
and said in a tone of sensibility, “How often 
have we all wished to see and to thank you ! ” 

This daughter of his host was of tender years ; 
apparently she could scarcely have counted six- 
teen summers. She was delicate and fragile, but 
as she raised her still blushing visage to her 
father’s guest, Coningsby felt that he had never 
beheld a countenance of such striking and such 
peculiar beauty. 

“ My only daughter, Mr. Coningsby, Edith ; a 
Saxon name, for she is the daughter of a Saxon.” 

But the beauty of the countenance was not 
the beauty of the Saxons. It was a radiant face, 
one of those that seem to have been touched in 


58 


CONINGSBY. 


their cradle by a sunbeam, and to have retained 
all their brilliancy and suffused and mantling 
lustre. One marks sometimes such faces, diaph- 
anous with delicate splendor, in the southern 
regions of France. Her eye, too, was the rare 
eye of Aquitaine ; soft and long, with lashes 
drooping over the cheek, dark as her clustering 
ringlets. 

They entered the drawing-room. 

“ Mr. Coningsby,” said Millbank to his daugh- 
ter, “ is in this part of the world only for a few 
hours, or I am sure he would become our guest. 
He has, however, promised to stay with us now 
and dine.” 

“ If Miss Millbank will pardon this dress,” 
said Coningsby, bowing an apology for his inevi- 
table frock and boots; the maiden raised her 
eyes and bent her head. 

The hour of dinner was at hand. Millbank 
offered to show Coningsby to his dressing-room. 
He was absent but a few minutes. When he re- 
turned he found Miss Millbank alone. He came 
somewhat suddenly into the room. She was 
playing with her dog, but ceased the moment 
she observed Coningsby. 

Coningsby, who since his practice with Lady 
Everingham,* flattered himself that he had ad- 
vanced in small talk, and was not sorry that he 
had now an opportunity of proving his prowess, 
made some lively observations about pets and the 
breeds of lap-dogs, but he was not fortunate in 
extracting a response or exciting a repartee. He 
began then on the beauty of Millbank, which he 
would on no account have avoided seeing, and in- 
quired when she had last heard of her brother. 
The young lady, apparently much distressed, was 
murmuring something about Antwerp, when the 
entrance of her father relieved her from her em- 
barrassment. 

Dinner being announced, Coningsby offered 
his arm to his fair companion, who took it with 
her eyes fixed on the ground. 

“ You are very fond, I see, of flowers,” said 
Coningsby, as they moved along ; and the young 
lady said “ Yes.” 

The dinner was plain, but perfect of its kind. 
The young hostess seemed to perform her office 
with a certain degree of desperate determination. 
She looked at a chicken and then at Coningsby, 
and murmured something which he understood. 
Sometimes she informed herself of his tastes or 
necessities in more detail, by the medium of her 
father, whom she treated as a sort of dragoman ; 
in this way : “ W ould not Mr. Coningsby, papa, 
take this or that, or do so and so ? ” Coningsby 
was always careful to reply in a direct manner, 
without the agency of the interpreter ; but he did 
not advance. Even a petition for the great honor 
of taking a glass of sherry with her only induced 
the beautiful face to bow. And yet when she 
had first seen him, she had addressed him even 
with emotion. What could it be ? He felt ■ less 
confidence in his increased power of conversation. 
Why, Theresa Sydney was scarcely a year older 
than Miss Millbank, and though she did not en- 
tirely originate like Lady Everingham, he got on 
with her perfectly well. 

Mr. Millbank did not seem to be conscious of 
his daughter’s silence ; at any rate, he attempted 
to compensate for it. He talked fluently and 


well ; on all subjects his opinions seemed to be 
decided, and his language was precise. He was 
really interested in what Coningsby had seen, 
and what he had felt ; and this sympathy divested 
his manner of the disagreeable effect that accom- 
panies a tone inclined to be dictatorial. More 
than once Coningsby observed the silent daughter 
listening with extreme attention to the conversa- 
tion of himself and her father. 

The dessert was remarkable. Millbank was 
very proud of his fruit. A bland expression of 
self-complacency spread over his features as he 
surveyed his grapes, his peaches, bis figs. 

“ These grapes have gained a medal,” he told 
Coningsby. “Those too are prize peaches. I 
have not yet been so successful with my figs. 
These however promise, and perhaps this year I 
may be more fortunate.” 

“ What would your brother and myself have 
given for such a dessert at Eton ! ” said Conings- 
by to Miss Millbank, wishing to say something, 
and something too that might interest her. 

She seemed infinitely distressed, and yet this 
time would speak : 

“ Let me give you some.” He caught by 
chance her glance immediately withdrawn ; yet it 
was a glance not only of beauty, but of feeling 
and thought. She added, in a hushed and hur- 
ried tone, dividing nervously some grapes, “I 
hardly know whether Oswald would be most 
pleased or grieved when he hears that you have 
been here.” 

“ And why grieved ? ” said Coningsby. 

“ That he should not have been here to wel- 
come you, and that your stay is for so brief a 
time. It seems so strange that after having 
talked of you for years, we should see you only 
for hours.” 

“ I hope I may return,” said Coningsby, “ and 
that Millbank may be here to welcome me ; but I 
hope I may be permitted to return, even if he be 
not.” 

But there was no reply ; and soon after, Mr. 
Millbank talking of the American market, and 
Coningsby helping himself to a glass of claret, 
the daughter of the Saxon, looking at her father, 
rose and left the room, so suddeuly and so quick- 
ly that Coningsby could scarcely gain the door. 

“Yes,” said Millbank, filling his glass, and 
pursuing some previous observations, “all that 
we want in this country is to be masters of our 
own industry; but Saxon industry and Norman 
manners never will agree ; and some day, Mr. 
Coningsby, you will find that out.” 

“But what do you mean by Norman man- 
ners ? ” inquired Coningsby. 

“ Did you ever hear of the Forest of Rossen- 
dale ? ” said Millbank. “ If you were staying 
here, you should visit the district. It is an area 
of twenty-four square miles. It was disforested 
in the early part of the sixteenth century, pos- 
sessing at that time eighty inhabitants. Its rental 
in James the First’s time was 120?. When the 
woollen manufacture was introduced into the 
north, the shuttle competed with the plough in 
Rossendale, and about forty years ago we sent 
them the Jenny. The eighty souls are now in- 
creased to upwards of eighty thousand, and the 
rental of the forest, by the last county assess- 
ment, amounts to more than 50,000? — 41,000 per 


THE BASIS OF ARISTOCRACY. 


59 


cent, on the value in the reign of James I. Now 
I call that an instance of Saxon industry compet- 
ing successfully with Norman manners.” 

“ Exactly,” said Coningshy, “ but those man- 
ners are gone.” 

“From Rossendale,” said Millbank, with a 
grim smile ; “ but not from England.” 

“ Where do you meet them ? ” 

“ Meet them ! In every place, at every hour ; 
and feel them, too, in every transaction of life.” 

“ I know, sir, from your son,” said Coningsby, 
inquiringly, “ that you are opposed to an aris- 
tocracy.” 

“No, I am not. I am for an aristocracy; 
but a real one, a natural one.” 

“ But, sir, is not the aristocracy of England,” 
said Coningsby, “a real one ? You do not con- 
found our peerage, for example, with the degraded 
patricians of the Continent.” 

“ Hum ! ” said Millbank. “ I do not under- 
stand how an aristocracy can exist, unless it be 
distinguished- by some quality which no other 
class of the community possesses. Distinction is 
the basis of aristocracy. If you permit only one 
class of the population, for example, to bear arms, 
they are an aristocracy ; not one much to my 
taste ; but still a great fact. That, however, is 
not the characteristic of the English peerage. I 
have yet to learn they are richer than we are, 
better informed, wiser, or more distinguished for 
public or private virtue. Is it not monstrous, 
then, that a small number of men, several of 
whom take the titles of duke and earl from 
towns in this very neighborhood, towns which 
they never saw, which never heard of them, which 
they did not form, or build, or establish, I say, is 
it not monstrous, that individuals so circum- 
stanced should be invested with the highest of 
conceivable privileges — the privilege of making 
laws ? Dukes and earls indeed ! I say there is 
nothing in a masquerade more ridiculous.” 

“ But do you not argue from an exception, 
sir ? ” said Coningsby. “ The question is, whether 
a preponderance of the aristocratic principle in a 
political constitution be, as I believe, conducive 
to the stability and permanent power of a State, 
and whether the peerage, as established in Eng- 
land, generally tends to that end. We must not 
forget in such an estimate the influence which, 
in this country, is exercised over opinion by an- 
cient lineage.” 

“ Ancient lineage ! ” said Mr. Millbank ; “ I 
never heard of a peer with an ancient lineage. 
The real old families of this country are to be 
found among the peasantry ; the gentry, too, 
may lay some claim to old blood. I can point 
you out Saxon families in this county who can 
trace their pedigrees beyond the Conquest ; I 
know of some Norman gentlemen whose fathers 
undoubtedly came over with the Conqueror. But 
a peer with an ancient lineage is to me quite a 
novelty. No, no; the thirty years of the wars 
of the Roses freed us from those gentlemen. I 
take it, after the battle of Tewkesbury, a Nor- 
man baron was almost as rare a being in Eng- 
land as a wolf is now.” 

“ I have always understood,” said Coningsby, 
“ that our peerage was the finest in Europe.” 

“ From themselves,” said Millbank, “ and the 
heralds they pay to paint their carriages. But I 


go to facts. When Henry VII. called his first 
Parliament, there were only twenty-nine tempo- 
ral peers to be found, and even some of them 
took their seats illegally, for they had been at- 
tainted. Of those twenty-nine not five remain, 
and they, as the Howards for instance, are not 
Norman nobility. We owe the English peerage 
to three sources : the spoliation of the Church ; 
the open and flagrant sale of its honors by the 
elder Stuarts ; and the boroughmongering of our 
own times. Those are the three main sources of 
the existing peerage of England, and in my opin- 
ion disgraceful ones. But I must apologise for 
my frankness in thus speaking to an aristocrat.” 

“Oh, by no means, sir, I like discussion. 
Your son and myself at Eton have had some en- 
counters of this kind before. But if your view 
of the case be correct,” added Coningsby, smil- 
ing, “ you cannot at any rate accuse our present 
peers of Norman manners.” 

“Yes, I do: they adopted Norman manners 
while they usurped Norman titles. They have 
neither the right of the Normans, nor do they 
fulfil the duty of the Normans : they did not con- 
quer the land, and they do not defend it.” 

“ And where will you find your natural aristoc- 
racy ? ” asked Coningsby. 

“Among those men whom a nation recog- 
nises as the most eminent for virtue, talents, and 
property, and, if you please, birth and standing 
in the land. They guide opinion ; and, there- 
fore, they govern. I am no leveller ; I look upon 
an artificial equality as equally pernicious with a 
factitious aristocracy ; both depressing the ener- 
gies, and checking the enterprise of a nation. I 
like man to be free — really free : free in his in- 
dustry as well as his body. What is the use of 
Habeas Corpus, if a man may not use his hands 
when he is out of prison ? ” 

“ But it appears to me you have, in a great 
measure, this natural aristocracy in England.” 

“ Ah, to be sure ! If we had not, where 
should we be ? It is the counteracting power - 
that saves us — the disturbing cause in the calcu- 
lations of short-sighted selfishness. I say it now, 
and I have said it a hundred times, the House of 
Commons is a more aristocratic body than the 
House of Lords. The fact is, a great peer would 
be a greater man now in the House of Commons 
than in the House of Lords. Nobody wants a 
second chamber, except a few disreputable indi- 
viduals. It is a valuable institution for any 
member of it who has no distinction — neither 
character, talents, nor estate. But a peer who \ 
possesses all or any of these great qualifications, 
would find himself an immeasurably more impor- 
tant personage in what, by way of jest, they call 
the Lower House.” 

“ Is not the revising wisdom of a senate a 
salutary check on the precipitation of a popular 
assembly ? ” 

“ Why should a popular assembly, elected by 
the flower of a nation, be precipitate ? If pre- 
cipitate, what senate could stay an assembly so 
chosen? No, no, no! the thing has been tried 
over and over again ; the idea of restraining the 
powerful by the weak is an absurdity — the ques- > 
tion is settled. If we wanted a fresh illustration, 
we need only look to the present state of our own 
House of Lords. It originates nothing ; it has, 


60 


CONINGSBY. 


in fact, announced itself as a mere Court of Regis- 
tration of the decrees of your House of Commons ; 
and if by any chance it ventures to alter some 
miserable detail in a clause of a bill that excites 
public interest, what a clatter through the coun- 
try, at Conservative banquets got up by the rural 
attorneys, about the power, authority, and inde- 
pendence of the House of Lords ; nine times nine, 
and one cheer more ! No, sir, you may make 
aristocracies by laws ; you can only maintain them 
by manners. The manners of England preserve 
it from its laws. And they have substituted for 
our formal aristocracy an essential aristocracy ; 
the government of those who are distinguished 
by their fellow-citizens.” 

“ But then it w'ould appear,” said Coningsby, 
“ that the remedial action of our manners has 
removed all the political and social evils of which 
you complain ? ” 

“They have created a power that may re- 
move them ; a power that has the capacity to 
remove them. But in a very great measure they 
still exist, and must exist yet, I fear, for a very 
long time. The growth of our civilisation has 
ever been as slow as our oaks ; but this tardy 
development is preferable to the temporary ex- 
pansion of the gourd.” 

“ The future seems to me sometimes a dark 
cloud.” 

“ Not to me,” said Mr. Millbank. “ I am san- 
guine — I am the Disciple of Progress. But I 
have cause for my faith. I have witnessed ad- 
vance. My father has often told me that in his 
early days the displeasure of a peer of England 
was like a sentence of death to a man. Why it 
'was esteemed a great concession to public opin- 
ion, so late as the reign of George III., that Lord 
Ferrers should be executed for murder. The 
king of a new dynasty, who wished to be popular 
with the people, insisted on it, and even then he 
was hanged with a silken cord. At any rate we 
may defend ourselves now,” continued Mr. Mill- 
bank, “ and, perhaps, do something more. I defy 
any peer to crush me, though there is one who 
would be very glad to do it. No more of that; 
I am very happy to see you at Millbank — very 
happy to make your acquaintance,” he con- 
tinued, with some emotion, “ and not merely 
because you are my son’s friend and more than 
friend.” 

The walls of the dining-room were covered 
with pictures of great merit, all of the modern 
English school. Mr. Millbank understood no 
other, he wa3 wont to say ! and he found that 
many of his friends who did, bought a great many 
pleasing pictures that were copies, and many 
originals that were very displeasing. He loved 
a fine free landscape by Lee, that gave him the 
broad plains, the green lanes, and running 
streams of his own land ; a group of animals by 
Landseer, as full of speech and sentiment as if 
they were designed by iEsop ; above all, he de- 
lighted in the household humor and homely 
pathos of Wilkie. And if a higher tone of im- 
agination pleased him, he could gratify it with- 
out difficulty among his favorite masters. He 
possessed some specimens of Etty worthy of Yen- 
ice when it was alive ; he could muse amid the 
twilight ruins of ancient cities raised by the magic 
pencil of Danby, or accompany a group of fair 


Neapolitans to a festival by the genial aid of 
Uwins. 

Opposite Coningsby was a portrait, which had 
greatly attracted his attention during the whole 
dinner. It represented a woman extremely young 
and of a rare beauty. The costume was of that 
classical character prevalent in this country be- 
fore the general peace ; a blue ribbon bound To- 
gether as a fillet for her clustering chestnut curls. 
The face was looking out of the canvas, and 
Coningsby never raised his eyes without catch- 
ing its glance of blended vivacity and tenderness. 

There are moments when our sensibility is 
affected by circumstances of a very trivial char- 
acter. It seems a fantastic emotion, but the 
gaze of this picture disturbed the serenity of Con- 
ingsby. He endeavored sometimes to avoid look- 
ing at it, but it irresistibly attracted him. More 
than once during dinner he longed to inquire 
whom it represented ; but it is a delicate subject 
to ask questions about portraits, and he refrained. 
Still, when he was rising to leave the room the 
impulse was irresistible. He said to Mr. Mill- 
bank, “ By whom is that portrait, sir ? ” 

The countenance of Millbank became dis- 
turbed ; it was not an expression of tender rem- 
iniscence that fell upon his features. On the 
contrary, the expression was agitated, almost 
angry. 

“Oh! that is by a country artist,” he said, 

“ of whom you never heard,” and moved away. 

They found Miss Millbank in the drawing- 
room ; she was sitting at a round table covered 
with working materials, apparently dressing a doll. 

“Nay,” thought Coningsby, “ she must be too 
old for that.” 

He addressed her, and seated himself by her 
side. There were several dolls on the table, but 
he discovered, on examination, that they were 
pincushions ; and elicited, with some difficulty, 
that they were making for a fancy fair about to 
be held in aid of that excellent institution, the 
Manchester Athenaeum. Then the father came 
up and said : 

“ My child, let us have some tea ; ” and she 
rose and seated herself at the tea-table. Con- 
ingsby also quitted his seat, and surveyed the 
apartment. 

There were several musical instruments ; , 
among others he observed a guitar, not such an 
instrument as one buys in a music-shop, but such 
an one as tinkles at Seville — a genuine Spanish 
guitar. Coningsby repaired to the tea-table. 

“ I am glad that you are fond of music, Miss 
Millbank.” 

A blush and a bow. 

“ I hope after tea you will be so kind as to 
touch the guitar.” 

Signals of great distress. 

“ Were you ever at Birmingham ? ” 

“ Yes : ” a sigh. 

“ What a splendid music-hall ! They should 
build one at Manchester.” 

“ They ought,” in a whisper. 

The tea-tray was removed; Coningsby was 
conversing with Mr. Millbank, who was asking 
him questions about his son ; what he thought of 
Oxford ; what he thought of Oriel ; should him- 
self have preferred Cambridge ; but had consulted 
a friend, an Oriel man, who had a great opinion 


MR. JAWSTER SHARP. 


61 


of Oriel ; and Oswald’s name had been entered 
some years back. He rather regretted it now; 
but the thing was done. Coningsby, remember- 
ing the promise of the guitar, turned round to 
claim its fulfilment, but the singer had made her 
escape. Time elapsed, and no Miss Millbank re- 
appeared. Coningsby looked at his watch ; he 
had to go three miles to the train, which started, 
as his friend of the previous night would phrase 
it, at 9-45. 

“ I should be happy if you remained with us,” 
said Mr. Millbank ; “ but as you say it is out of 
your power, in this age of punctual travelling, a 
host is bound to speed the parting guest. The 
carriage is ready for you.” 

“Farewell, then, sir. You must make my 
adieux to Miss Millbank, and accept my thanks 
for your great kindness.” 

“Farewell, Mr. Coningsby,” said his host, 
taking his hand, which he retained for a moment, 
as if he would say more. Then leaving it, he re- 
peated with a somewhat wandering air, and in a 
voice of emotion, “ Farewell — farewell, Mr. Con- 
ingsby.” 


CHAPTER Y. 

Towards the end of the session of 1836, the 
hopes of the Conservative party were again in 
the ascendant. The Tadpoles and the Tapers had 
infused such enthusiasm into all the country at- 
torneys, who, in their turn, had so bedevilled the 
registration, that it was whispered in the utmost 
confidence, but as a flagrant truth, that Reaction 
was at length “ a great fact.” All that was re- 
quired was the opportunity; but as the existing 
Parliament was not two years old, and the gov- 
ernment had an excellent working majority, it 
seemed that the occasion could scarcely be fur- 
nished. Under these circumstances, the back- 
stairs politicians, not content with having by their 
premature movements already seriously damaged 
the career of their leader, to whom in public they 
pretended to be devoted, began weaving again 
their old intrigues about the court, and not with- 
out effect. 

It was said that the royal ear lent itself with 
no marked repugnance to suggestions which might 
rid the Sovereign of ministers, who, after all, were 
the ministers not of his choice, but of his neces- 
sity. But William IY., after two failures in a 
similar attempt, after his respective embarrassing 
interviews with Lord Grey and Lord Melbourne, 
on their return to office in 1832 and 1835, was 
resolved never to make another move unless it 
were a checkmate. The King, therefore, listened 
and smiled, and loved to talk to his favorites of 
his private feelings and secret hopes; the first 
outraged, the second cherished ; and a little of 
these revelations of royalty was distilled to great 
personages, who in their turn spoke hypothetically 
to their hangers-on of royal dispositions, and pos- 
sible contingencies, while the hangers-on and go- 
betweens, in their turn, looked more than they 
expressed ; took county members by the button 
into a corner, and advised, as friends, the repre- 
sentatives of boroughs to look sharply after the 
next registration. 


Lord Monmouth, who was never greater than 
in adversity, and whose favorite excitement was 
to aim at the impossible, had never been more 
resolved on a dukedom than when the Reform 
Act deprived him of the twelve votes which he 
had accumulated to attain that object. While all 
his companions in discomfiture were bewailing 
their irretrievable overthrow, Lord Monmouth 
became almost a convert to the measure, which 
had furnished his devising and daring mind, 
palled with prosperity, and satiate’d with a life of 
success, with an object, and the stimulating en- 
joyment of a difficulty. 

He had early resolved to appropriate to him- 
self a division of the county in which his chief 
seat was situate ; but what most interested him, 
because it was most difficult, was the acquisition 
of one of the new boroughs that was in his vicin- 
ity, and in which he possessed considerable prop- 
erty. The borough, however, was a manufac- 
turing town, and returning only one member, it 
had hitherto sent up to Westminster a radical 
shopkeeper, one Mr. Jawster Sharp, who had 
taken what is called “a leading part” in the 
town on every “crisis” that had occurred since 
1830; one of those. zealous patriots who had got 
up penny subscriptions for gold cups to Lord 
Grey ; cries for the bill, the whole bill, and noth- 
ing but the bill ; and public dinners where the 
victual was devoured before grace was said; a 
worthy who makes speeches, passes resolutions, 
votes addresses, goes up with deputations, has at 
all times the necessary quantity of confidence in 
the necessary individual ; confidence in Lord 
Grey ; confidence in Lord Durham ; confidence in 
Lord Melbourne ; and can also, if necessary, give 
three cheers for the King, or three groans for the 
Queen. 

But the days of the genus Jawster Sharp 
were over in this borough as well as in many oth- 
ers. He had contrived in his lustre of agitation 
to feather his nest pretty successfully ; by which 
he had lost public confidence and gained his pri- 
vate end. Three hungry Jawster Sharps, his 
hopeful sons, had all become commissioners of 
one thing or another; temporary appointments 
with interminable duties; a low-church son-in- 
law found himself comfortably seated in a chan- 
cellor’s living ; and several cousins and nephews 
were busy in the Excise. But Jawster Sharp 
himself was as pure as Cato. He had always 
said he would never touch the public money, and 
he had kept his word. It was an understood 
thing that Jawster Sharp was never to show his 
face again on the hustings of Darlford ; the 
Liberal party was determined to be represented 
in future by a man of station, substance, charac- 
ter, a true Reformer, but one who wanted nothing 
for himself, and therefore might, if needful, get 
something for them. They were looking out for 
such a man, but were in no hurry. The seat was 
looked upon as a good thing ; a contest certainly, 
every place is contested now, but as certainly a 
large majority. Notwithstanding all this confi- 
dence, however, Reaction or Registration, or some 
other mystification, had produced effects even in 
this creature of the Reform Bill, the good 
Borough of Darlford. The borough that out of 
gratitude to Lord Grey returned a jobbing shop- 
keeper twice to Parliament as its representative 


62 


CONINGSBY 


without a contest, had now a Conservative Asso- 
ciation, with a banker for its chairman, and a 
brewer for its vice-president, and four sharp law- 
yers nibbing their pens, noting their memoran- 
dum-books, and assuring their neighbors, with a 
consoling and complacent air, that “Property 
must tell in the long run.” Whispers also were 
about, that when the proper time arrived, a Con- 
servative candidate would certainly have the hon- 
or of addressing the electors. No name men- 
tioned, but it was not concealed that he was to 
be of no ordinary calibre ; a tried man, a distin- 
guished individual, who had already fought the 
battle of the constitution, and served his country 
in eminent posts ; honored by the nation, favored 
by his sovereign. These important and encour- 
aging intimations were ably diffused in the col- 
umns of the Conservative journal, and in a style 
which, from its high tone, evidently indicated no 
ordinary source and no common pen. Indeed, 
there appeared occasionally in this paper, articles 
written with such unusual vigor, that the proprie- 
tors of the Liberal journal almost felt the neces- 
sity of getting some eminent hand down from 
town to compete with them. It was impossible 
that they could emanate from the rival Editor. 
They knew well the length of their brother’s 
tether. Had they been more versant in the peri- 
odical literature of the day, they might in this 
“ slashing ” style have caught perhaps a glimpse of 
the future candidate for their borough, the Right 
Honorable Nicholas Rigby. 

Lord Monmouth, though he had been absent 
from England since 1832, had obtained from his 
vigilant correspondent a current knowledge of all 
that had occurred in the interval. All the hopes, 
fears, plaus, prospects, manoeuvres, and machina- 
tions ; their rise and fall ; how some had bloomed, 
others were blighted ; not a shade of reaction 
that was not represented to him ; not the possi- 
bility of an adhesion that was not duly reported ; 
he could calculate at Naples at any time, within 
ten, the result of a dissolution. The season of 
the year had prevented him crossing the Alps in 
1834, and after the general election he was too 
shrewd a practiser in the political world to be 
deceived as to the ultimate result. Lord Eskdale, 
in whose judgment he had more confidence than 
in that of any individual, had told him from the 
first that the pear was not ripe ; Rigby, who al- 
ways hedged against his interest by the fulfilment 
of his prophecy of irremediable discomfiture, 
was never very sanguine. Indeed, the whole 
affair was always considered premature by the 
good judges ; and a long time elapsed before 
Tadpole and Taper recovered their secret influ- 
ence, or resumed their ostentatious loquacity or 
their silent insolence. 

The pear, however, was now ripe. Even Lord 
Eskdale wrote that after the forthcoming registra- 
tion a bet was safe, and Lord Monmouth had the 
satisfaction of drawing the Whig Minister at 
Naples into a cool thousand on the event. Soon 
after this he returned to England, and determined 
to pay a visit to Coningsby Castle, feast the county, 
patronise the borough, diffuse that confidence in 
the party which his presence never failed to do ; 
so great and so just was the reliance in his un- 
erring powers of calculation and his intrepid 
pluck. Notwithstanding Schedule A, the pres- 


tige of his power had not sensibly diminished, 
for his essential resources were vast, and his in- 
tellect always made the most of his influence. 

True, however, to his organisation, Lord 
Monmouth, even to save his party and gain his 
dukedom, must not be bored. He, therefore, 
filled his castle with the most agreeable people 
from London, and even secured for their diver- 
sion a little troop of French comedians. Thus 
supported, he received his neighbors with all 
the splendor befitting his immense wealth and 
great position, and with one charm which even 
immense wealth and great position cannot com- 
mand, the most perfect manner in the world. 
Indeed, Lord Monmouth was one of the most 
finished gentlemen that ever lived ; and as he 
was extremely good-natured, and for a selfish 
man even good-humored, there was rarely a 
cloud of caprice or ill-temper to prevent his fine 
manners having their fair play. The country 
neighbors were all fascinated ; they were re- 
ceived with so much dignity and dismissed with 
so much grace. Nobody would believe a word 
of the stories against him. Had he lived all his 
life at Coningsby, fulfilled every duty of a great 
English nobleman, benefited the county, loaded 
the inhabitants with favors, he would not have 
been half so popular as he found himself within 
a fortnight of his arrival with the worst county 
reputation conceivable, and every little squire 
vowing that he would not even leave his name at 
the Castle to show his respect. 

Lord Monmouth, whose contempt for mankind 
was absolute ; not a fluctuating sentiment, not a 
mournful conviction, ebbing and flowing with 
circumstances, but a fixed, profound, unalterable 
instinct ; who never loved any one, and never 
hated any one except his own children ; was di- 
verted by his popularity, but he was also grati- 
fied by it. At this moment it was a great ele- 
ment of power ; he was proud that, with a vicious 
character, after having treated these people with 
unprecedented neglect and contumely, he should 
have won back their golden opinions in a moment 
by the magic of manner and the splendor of 
wealth. His experience proved the soundness 
of his philosophy. 

Lord Monmouth worshipped gold, though, 
if necessary, he could squander it like a caliph. 
He had even a respect for very rich men ; it was 
his only weakness, the only exception to his gen- 
eral scorn for his species. Wit, power, particu- 
lar friendships, general popularity, public opinion, 
beauty, genius, virtue, all these are to be pur- 
chased ; but it does not follow that you can buy 
a rich man : you may not be able or willing to 
spare enough. A person or a thing that you per- 
haps could not buy, became invested, in the eyes 
of Lord Monmouth, with a kind of halo amount- 
ing almost to sanctity. 

As the prey rose to the bait, Lord Monmouth 
resolved they should be gorged. His banquets 
were doubled ; a ball was announced ; a public 
day fixed ; not only the county, but the principal 
inhabitants of the neighboring borough, were en- 
couraged to attend ; Lord Monmouth wished it, 
if possible, to be without distinction of party. He 
had come to reside among his old friends, to live 
and die where he was born. The Chairman of 
the Conservative Association and the Yice Presi- 


RECEPTION AT THE CASTLE. 


63 


dent exchanged glances, which would have be- 
come Tadpole and Taper ; the four attorneys 
nibbed their pens with increased energy, and 
vowed that nothing could withstand the influence 
of the aristocracy “ in the long run.” All went 
and dined at the Castle ; all returned home over- 
powered by the condescension of the host, the 
beauty of the ladies, several real Princesses, the 
splendor of his liveries, the variety of his viands, 
and the flavor of his wines. It was agreed that at 
future meetings of the Conservative Association, 
they should always give “ Lord Monmoutja and 
the House of Lords ! ” — superseding the Duke of 
Wellington, who was to figure in an after-toast 
with the Battle of Waterloo. 

It was not without emotion that Coningsby 
beheld for the first time the castle that bore his 
name. It was visible for several miles before he 
even entered the park, so proud and prominent 
was its position, on the richly-wooded steep of 
a considerable eminence. It was a castellated 
building, immense and magnificent, in a very 
faulty and incongruous style of architecture, in- 
deed, but compensating in some degree for these 
deficiencies of external taste and beauty by the 
splendor and accommodation of its interior, and 
which a Gothic castle, raised according to the 
strict rules of art, could scarcely have afforded. 
The declining sun threw over the pile a rich color 
as Coningsby approached it, and lit up with fleet- 
ing and fanciful tints the delicate foliage of the 
rare shrubs and tall thin trees that clothed the 
acclivity on which it stood. Our young friend 
felt a little embarrassed when, without a servant 
and in a hack chaise, he drew up to the grand 
portal, and a crowd of retainers came forth to re- 
ceive him. A superior servant inquired his name 
with a stately composure, that disdained to be su- 
percilious. It was not without some degree of 
pride and satisfaction that the guest replied, “ Mr. 
Coningsby.” The instantaneous effect was magi- 
cal. It seemed to Coningsby that he was borne 
on the shoulders of the people to his apartment; 
• each tried to carry some part of his luggage ; and 
he only hoped his welcome from their superiors 
might be as hearty. 


CHAPTER YI. 

It appeared to Coningsby in his way to his 
room, that the Castle was in a state of great ex- 
citement; everywhere bustle, preparation, mov- 
ing to and fro, ascending and descending of st airs, 
servants in every corner ; orders boundlessly 
given, rapidly obeyed ; many desires, equal grati- 
fication. All this made him rather nervous. It 
was quite unlike Beaumanoir. That also was a 
palace, but it was a home. This, though it should 
be one to him, seemed to have nothing of that 
character. Of all mysteries the social mysteries 
are the most appalling. Going to an assembly 
for the first time is more alarming than the first 
battle. Coningsby had never before been in a 
great house full of company. It seemed an over- 
whelming affair. The sight of the servants be- 
wildered him ; how then was he to encounter 
their masters ? 

That, however, he must do in a moment. A 


groom of the chambers indicates the way to him, 
as he proceeds with a hesitating yet hurried step 
through several ante-chambers and drawing- 
rooms ; then doors are suddenly thrown open, 
and he is ushered into the largest and most sump- 
tuous saloon that he had ever entered. It was 
full of ladies and gentlemen. Coningsby for the 
first time in his life was at a great party. His 
immediate emotion was to sink into the earth ; 
but perceiving that no one even noticed him, and 
that not an eye had been attracted to his en- 
trance, he regained his breath and in some degree 
his composure, and standing aside, endeavored 
to make himself as well as he could master of 
the land. 

Not a human being that he had ever seen be- 
fore! The circumstance of not being noticed, 
which a few minutes since he had felt as a relief, 
became now a cause of annoyance. It seemed 
that he was the only person standing alone whom 
no one was addressing. He felt renewed and 
aggravated embarrassment, and fancied, perhaps 
was conscious, that he was blushing. At length 
his ear caught the voice of Mr. Rigby. The 
speaker was not visible ; he was at a distance 
surrounded by a wondering group, whom he 
was severally and collectively contradicting, but 
Coningsby could not mistake those harsh, arro- 
gant tones. He was not sorry indeed that Mr. 
Rigby did not observe him. Coningsby never 
loved him particularly, which was rather un- 
grateful, for he was a person who had been kind, 
and, on the w r hole, serviceable to him ; but Con- 
ingsby writhed, especially as he grew r older, under 
Mr. Rigby’s patronising air and paternal tone. 
Even in old days, though attentive, Coningsby 
had never found him affectionate. Mr. Rigby 
would tell him what to do and see, but never 
asked him what he wished to do and see. It 
seemed to Coningsby that it was always con- 
trived that he should appear the protege or poor 
relation of a dependent of his family. These feel- 
ings, which the thought of Mr. Rigby had re- 
vived, caused our young friend, by an inevitable 
association of ideas, to remember that, unknown 
and unnoticed as lie might be, he was the only 
Coningsby in that proud Castle, except the Lord 
of the Castle himself ; and he began to be rather 
ashamed of permitting a sense of his inexperience 
in the mere forms and fashions of society so to 
oppress him, and deprive him, as it were, of the 
spirit and carriage which became alike his char- 
acter and his position. Emboldened and greatly 
restored to himself, Coningsby advanced into the 
body of the saloon. 

On his legs, wearing his blue ribbon and 
bending his head frequently to a lady who was 
seated on a sofa, and continually addressed him, 
Coningsby recognised his grandfather. Lord 
Monmouth was somewhat balder than four years 
ago, when he had come down to Montem, and a 
little more portly perhaps ; but otherwise un- 
changed. Lord Monmouth never condescended 
to the artifices of the toilet, and, indeed, notwith- 
standing his life of excess, had little need of them. 
Nature had done much for him, and the slow prog- 
ress of decay was carried off by his consummate 
bearing. He looked, indeed, the chieftain of a 
house of whom a cadet might be proud. 

For Coningsby, not only the chief of his 


G4 


CONINGSBY. 


house, but his host too. In either capacity he 
ought to address Lord Monmouth. To sit down 
to dinner without having previously paid his re- 
spects to his grandfather, to whom he was so much 
indebted, and whom he had not seen for so many 
years, struck him not only as uncourtly, but as 
unkind and ungrateful, and, indeed, in the high- 
est degree absurd. But how was he to do it? 
Lord Monmouth seemed deeply engaged, apd ap- 
parently with some very great lady. And if Con- 
ingsby advanced and bowed, in all probability he 
would only get a bow in return. He remembered 
the bow of his first interview. It had made a 
lasting impression on his mind. For it was more 
than likely Lord Monmouth would not recognise 
him. Four years had not very sensibly altered 
Lord Monmouth, but four years had changed 
Harry Coningsby from a schoolboy into a man. 
Then how was he to make himself known to his 
grandfather ? To announce himself as Conings- 
by, as his Lordship’s grandson, seemed somewhat 
ridiculous : to address his grandfather as Lord 
Monmouth would serve no purpose : to style 
Lord Monmouth “ grandfather,” would make 
every one laugh, and seemed stiff and unnatural. 
What was he to do ? To fall into an attitude, 
and exclaim “ Behold your grandchild ! ” or, 
“ Have you forgot your Harry ? ” 

Even to catch Lord Monmouth’s glance was 
not a very easy affair ; he was much occupied on 
one side by the great lady, on the other were 
several gentlemen who occasionally joined in the 
conversation. But something must be done. 

There ran through Coningsby’s character, as 
we have before mentioned, a vein of simplicity, 
which was not its least charm. It resulted, no 
doubt, in a great degree from the earnestness of 
his nature. There never was a boy so totally 
devoid of affectation, which was remarkable, for he 
had a brilliant imagination, a quality that, from 
its fantasies, and the vague and indefinite desires 
it engenders, generally makes those whose char- 
acters are not formed, very affected. The Duch- 
ess, who was a fine judge of character, and who 
greatly regarded Coningsby, often mentioned this 
trait as one which, combined with his great abili- 
ties and acquirements so unusual at his age, 
rendered him very interesting. In the present 
instance it happened that, while Coningsby was 
watching his grandfather, he observed a gentle- 
man advance, make his bow, say and receive a 
few words, and retire. This little incident, how- 
ever, made a momentary diversion in the im- 
mediate circle of Lord Monmouth, and before 
they could all resume their former talk and fall 
into their previous positions, an impulse sent 
forth Coningsby, who walked up to Lord Mon- 
mouth, and standing before him, said : 

“ IIow do you do, grandpapa ? ” 

Lord Monmouth beheld his grandson. His 
comprehensive and penetrating glance took in 
every point with a flash. There stood before him 
one of the handsomest youths he had ever seen, 
with a mien as graceful as his countenance was 
captivating ; and his whole air breathing that 
freshness and ingenuousness which none so much 
appreciates as the used man of the world. And 
this was his child ; the only one of his blood to 
whom he had been kind. It would be exaggera- 
tion to say that Lord Monmouth’s heart was 


touched ; but his good-nature effervesced, and his 
fine taste was deeply gratified. He perceived 
in an instant such a relation might be a valuable 
adherent ; an irresistible candidate for future 
elections : a brilliant tool to work out the Duke- 
dom. All these impressions and ideas, and many 
more, passed through the quick brain of Lord 
Monmouth ere the sound of Coningsby’s words 
had seemed to cease, and long before the sur- 
rounding guests had recovered from the surprise 
which they had occasioned them, and which did 
not diminish, when Lord Monmouth, advancing, 
placed his arms round Coningsby with a dignity 
of affection that would have become Louis XIV., 
and then in the high manner of the old Court, 
kissed him on each cheek. 

“Welcome to your home,” said Lord Mon- 
mouth. “ You have grown a great deal.” 

Then Lord Monmouth led the agitated Con- 
ingsby to the great lady, who was a Princess and 
an Ambassadress, and then, placing his arm 
gracefully in that of his grandson, he led him 
across the room, and presented him in due form 
to some royal blood that was his guest, in the 
shape of a Russian Grand-duke. His Imperial 
Highness -received our hero as graciously as the 
grandson of Lord Monmouth might expect ; but 
no greeting can be imagined warmer than the one 
he received from the lady with whom the Grand- 
duke was conversing. She was a dame whose 
beauty was mature, but still radiant. Her figure 
was superb ; her dark hair crowned with a tiara 
of curious workmanship. • Her rounded arm was 
covered with costly bracelets, but not a jewel on 
her finely formed bust, and the least possible 
rouge on her still oval cheek. Madame Colonna 
retained her charms. 

The party, though so considerable, principally 
consisted of the guests at the Castle. The suite 
of the Grand-duke included several Counts and 
Generals ; then there were the Russian Ambas- 
sador and his lady ; and a Russian Prince and 
Princess, their relations. The Prince and Prin- 
cess Colonna and the Princess Lucretia were also 
paying a visit to the Marquess ; and the frequency 
of these visits made some strait-laced magnificoes 
mysteriously declare it was impossible to go to 
Coningsby; but as they were not asked it did not 
much signify. The Marquess knew a great many 
very agreeable people of the highest ton , who 
took a more liberal view of human conduct, and 
always made it a rule to presume the best mo- 
tives instead of imputing the worst. There was 
Lady St. Julians, for example, whose position 
was of the highest ; no one more sought ; she 
made it a rule to go everywhere and visit every- 
body, provided they had power, wealth, and 
fashion. She knew no crime except a woman not 
living with her husband ; that was past pardon. 
So long as his presence sanctioned her conduct, 
however shameless, it did not signify ; but if the 
husband were a brute, neglected his wife first, 
and then deserted her ; then, if a breath but sul- 
lies her name she must be crushed ; unless, in- 
deed her own family were very powerful, Avhich 
makes a difference, and sometimes softens immo- 
rality into indiscretion. 

Lord and Lady Gaverstock were also there, 
w r ho never said an unkind thing of anybody; her 
ladyship was pure as snow; but her mother 


YILLEBECQUE AND STELLA. 


65 


having been divorced, she ever fancied she was 
paying a kind of homage to her parent, by visit- 
ing those who might some day be in the same 
predicament. There were other lords and ladies 
of high degree; and some who, though neither 
lords nor ladies, were charming people, which 
Lord Monmouth chiefly cared about ; troops of 
fine gentlemen who came and went ; and some 
who were neither fine nor gentlemen, but who 
were very amusing or very obliging, as circum- 
stances required, and made life easy and pleasant 
to others and themselves. 

A new scene this for Coningsby, w’ho watched 
with interest all that passed before him. The 
dinner was announced as served ; an affectionate 
arm guides him at a moment of some perplexity. 

“ When did you arrive, Harry ? We shall sit 
together. How is the Duchess ? ” inquired Mr. 
Rigby, who spoke as if he had seen Coningsby 
for the first time ; but who indeed had, with that 
eye which nothing could escape, observed his re- 
ception bv his grandfather, marked it well, and 
inwardly digested it. 


CHAPTER YII 

There was to be a first appearance on the 
stage of Lord Monmouth’s theatre to-night, the 
expectation of w T hich created considerable interest 
in the party, and was one of the principal sub- 
jects of conversation at dinner. Villebecque, 
the manager of the troop, had married the actress 
Stella, once celebrated for her genius and her 
beauty ; a woman who had none of the vices of 
her craft, for, though she was a fallen angel, 
there were what her countrymen style extenu- 
ating circumstances in her declension. With the 
whole world at her feet, she had remained unsul- 
lied. Wealth and its enjoyments could not tempt 
her, although she was unable to refuse her heart 
to one whom she deemed w r orthy of possessing it. 
She found her fate in an Englishman, w r ho was 
the father of her only child, a daughter. She 
thought she had met in him a hero, a demi-god, 
a being of deep passion and original and creative 
mind ; but he was only a voluptuary, full of vio- 
lence instead of feeling, and eccentric, because he 
had great means with which he could gratify ex- 
travagant whims. Stella found she had made the 
great and irretrievable mistake. She had ex- 
changed devotion for a passionate and evanescent 
fancy, prompted at first by vanity, and daily dis- 
sipating under the influence of custom and new 
objects. Though not stainless in conduct, Stella 
was pure in spirit. She required that devotion 
which she had yielded ; and she separated her- 
self from the being to whom she had made the 
most precious sacrifice. He offered her the con- 
soling compensation of a settlement, which she 
refused ; and she returned with a broken spirit 
to that profession of which she was still the orna- 
ment and the pride. 

The animating principle of her career was her 
daughter, whom she educated with a solicitude 
which the most virtuous mother could not sur- 
pass. To preserve her from the stage, and to se- 
cure for her an independence, were the objects of 
her mother’s life ; but Nature whispered to her 
5 


that the days of that life were already numbered. 
The exertions of her profession had alarmingly 
developed au inherent tendency to pulmonary dis- 
ease. Anxious that her child should not be left 
without some protector, Stella yielded to the re- 
peated solicitations of one who from the first had 
been her silent admirer, and she married Ville- 
becque, a clever actor, and an enterprising man, 
who meant to be something more. Their union 
was not of long duration, though it was happy on 
the side of Villebecque, and serene on that of his 
wife. Stella was recalled from this world, where 
she had known much triumph and more suffer- 
ing ; and where she had exercised many virtues, 
which elsewhere, though not here, may perhaps 
be accepted as some palliation of one great error. 

Villebecque acted becomingly to the young 
charge which Stella had bequeathed to him. He 
was himself, as we have intimated, a man of en- 
terprise. a restless spirit, not content to move for 
ever in the sphere in which he was born. Vi- 
cissitudes are the lot of such aspirants. Ville- 
becque became manager of a small theatre, and 
made money. If Villebecque without a sou, had 
been a schemer, Villebecque with a small capital 
was the very Chevalier Law of theatrical mana- 
gers. He took a larger theatre, and even that 
succeeded.* Soon he was recognised as the lessee 
of more than one, and still he prospered. Ville- 
becque began to dabble in Opera-houses. He en- 
throned himself at Paris ; his envoys were heard 
of at Milan and Naples, at Beilin, and St. Peters- 
burg. ' His controversies with the Conservatoire 
at Paris ranked among state papers. Villebecque 
rolled in chariots and drove cabs ; Villebecque 
gave refined suppers to great nobles, who were 
honored by the invitation ; Villebecque wore a red 
ribbon in the button-hole of his frock, and more 
than one cross in his gala dress. 

All this time the daughter of Stella increased 
in years and stature, and we must add in good- 
ness : a mild, soft-hearted girl, as yet with no de- 
cided character, but one who loved calmness and 
seemed little fitted for the circle in which she 
found herself. In that circle, however, she ever 
experienced kindness and consideration. No en- 
terprise however hazardous, no management how- 
ever complicated, no schemes however vast, ever 
for a moment induced Villebecque to forget “ La 
Petite.” If only for one breathless instant, hard- 
ly a day elapsed but he saw her ; she was his 
companion in all his rapid movements, and he 
studied every comfort and convenience that could 
relieve her delicate frame in some degree from 
the inconvenience and exhaustion of travel. He 
was proud to surround her with luxury and re- 
finement ; to supply her with the most celebrated 
masters ; to gratify every wish that she could ex- 
press. 

But all this time Villebecque was dancing on 
a volcano. The catastrophe which inevitably 
occurs in the career of all great speculators, 
and especially theatrical ones, arrived to him. 
Flushed with his prosperity, and confident in his 
constant success, nothing would satisfy him but 
universal empire. lie had established his despot- 
ism at Paris, his dynasties at Naples and at 
Milan ; but the North was not to him, and he was 
determined to appropriate it. Berlin fell before 
a successful campaign, though a costly one ; but 


G6 


CONINGSBY. 


St. Petersburg and London still remained. Reso- 
lute and reckless, nothing deterred Villebecque. 
One season all the Opera-houses in Europe obeyed 
his nod, and at the end of it he was ruined. The 
crash was utter, universal, overwhelming; and 
under ordinary circumstances a French bed and a 
brasier of charcoal alone remained for Ville- 
becque, who was equal to the occasion. But the 
thought of La Petite and the remembrance of his 
promise to Stella deterred him from the deed. 
He reviewed his position in a spirit becoming a 
practical philosopher. Was he worse off than be- 
fore he commenced his career ? Yes, because he 
was older ; — though to be sure he had his com- 
pensating reminiscences. But was he too old to 
do anything ? At forty-five the game was not al- 
together up ; and in a large theatre, not too 
much lighted, and with the artifices of a dramatic 
toilet, he might still be able successfully to re-as- 
sume those characters of coxcombs and mus- 
cadins, in which he was once so celebrated. 
Luxury had perhaps a little too much enlarged 
his waist, but diet and rehearsals would set all 
right. 

Villebecque in their adversity broke to La 
Petite, that the time had unfortunately arrived, 
when it would be wise for her to consider the 
most effectual means for turning her talents and 
accomplishments to account. He himself sug- 
gested the stage, to which otherwise there were 
doubtless objections, because her occupation in 
any other pursuit would necessarily separate 
them ; but he impartially placed before her the 
relative advantages and disadvantages of every 
course which seemed to lie open to them, and 
left the preferable one to her own decision. La 
Petite, who had Avept very much over Ville- 
becque’s misfortunes, and often assured him that 
she cared for them only for his sake, decided for 
the stage, solely because it would secure their 
not being parted ; and yet, as she often assured 
him, she feared she had no predisposition for the 
career. 

Villebecque had now not only to fill Ills own 
parts at the theatre at Avhich he had obtained an 
engagement, but he had also to be the instructor 
of his ward. It was a life of toil ; an addition of 
labor and effort that need scarcely have been 
made to the exciting exertion of performance, 
and the dull exercise of rehearsal ; but he bore it 
all without a murmur ; Avith a self-command and 
a gentle perseverance which the finest temper in 
the Avorld could hardly account for; certainly not 
when Ave remember that its possessor, who had to 
make all these exertions and endure all this wea- 
risome toil, had just experienced the most shatter- 
ing vicissitudes of fortune, and been hurled from 
the possession of absolute power and illimitable 
self-gratification. 

Lord Eskdale, Avho was always doing kind 
things to actors and actresses, had a great regard 
for Villebecque, with whom he had often supped. 
He had often been kind, too, to La Petite. Lord 
Eskdale had a plan for putting Villebecque, as he 
termed it, “ on his legs again.” It Avas to estab- 
lish him Avith a French company in London at 
some pretty theatre ; Lord Eskdale to take a 
private box and to make all his friends do the 
same. Villebecque, who was as sanguine as he 
was good-tempered, Avas ravished by this friendly 


scheme. He immediately believed that he should 
recover his great fortunes as rapidly as he had 
lost them. He foresaw in La Petite a genius as 
distinguished as that of her mother, although as 
yet not developed, and he was boundless in his 
expressions of gratitude to his patron. And in- 
deed of all friends, a friend in need is the most 
delightful. Lord Eskdale had the talent of being 
a friend in need. Perhaps it Avas because he 
kneAv so many Avorthless persons. But it often 
happens that worthless persons are merely people 
who are worth nothing. 

Lord Monmouth having written to Mr. Rigby 
of his intention to reside for some months at Con- 
ingsby, and having mentioned that he Avished a 
troop of French comedians to be engaged for the 
summer, Mr. Rigby had immediately consulted 
Lord Eskdale on the subject, as the best current 
authority. Thinking this a good opportunity of 
giving a turn to poor Villebecque, and that it 
might serve as a capital introduction to their 
scheme of the London company, Lord Eskdale 
obtained for him the engagement. 

Villebecque and his little troop had not been 
a month at Coningsby, and had hitherto performed 
three times a-week. Lord Monmouth Avas con- 
tent ; his guests much gratified ; the company, on 
the whole, much approved of. It was, indeed, 
considering its limited numbers, a capital com- 
pany. There was a young lady who played the 
old Avoman’s parts — nothing could be more garru- 
lous and venerable ; and a lady of maturer years 
who performed the heroines — gay and graceful as 
May. Villebecque himself Avas a celebrity in 
characters of airy insolence and careless frolic. 
Their old man, indeed, Avas rather hard, but 
handy ; could take anything either in the high 
serious, or the low droll. Their sentimental lover 
Avas rather too much bewigged, and spoke too 
much to the audience — a fault rare with the 
French ; but this hero had a vague idea that he 
Avas ultimately destined to run off Avith a prin- 
cess. 

In this wise, affairs had gone on for a month ; 
very well, but not too well. The enterprising 
genius of Villebecque, once more a manager, 
prompted him to action. He felt an itching de- 
sire to announce a novelty. He fancied Lord 
Monmouth had yawned once or twice Avhen the 
heroine came on. Villebecque wanted to make a 
coup. It was clear that La Petite must sooner or 
later begin. Could she find a more favorable 
audience, or a more fitting occasion, than Avas 
noAv offered ? True it was, she had a great re- 
pugnance to come out; but it certainly seemed 
more to her advantage that she should make her 
first appearance at a private theatre than at a pub- 
lic one ; supported by all the encouraging patron- 
age of Coningsby Castle, than subjected to all the 
cynical criticism of the stalls of St. James’s. 

These views and various considerations Avere 
urged and represented by Villebecque to La Pe- 
tite, with all the practised poAvers of plausibil- 
ity of which so much experience as a manager had 
made him master. La Petite looked infinitely 
distressed, but yielded, as she ever did. And the 
night of Coningsby’s arrival at the Castle was to 
AA'itness in its private theatre the first appearance 
of Mademoiselle Flora. 


THE DEBUT OF MADEMOISELLE FLORA. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

The guests re-assembled in the great saloon 
before they repaired to the theatre. A lady on 
the arm of the Russian Prince bestowed on Con- 
ingsby a haughty, but not ungracious, bow ; which 
he returned, unconscious of the person to whom 
he bent. She was, however, a very striking per- 
son — not beautiful ; her face, indeed, at the first 
glance was almost repulsive, yet it ever attracted 
a second gaze. A remarkable pallor distinguished 
her ; her features had neither regularity nor ex- 
pression ; neither were her eyes fine; but her 
brow impressed you with an idea of power of no 
ordinary character or capacity. Her figure was 
as fine and commanding as her face was void of 
charm. Juno, in the full bloom of her immor- 
tality, could have presented nothing more majes- 
tic. Coningsby watched her as she swept along 
like a resistless Fate. 

Servants now went round and presented to 
each of the guests a billet of the performance. 
Unannounced in striking characters the debut of 
Mademoiselle Flora. A principal servant, bear- 
ing branch lights, came forward and bowed to 
the Marquess. Lord Monmouth went immediately 
to the Grand-duke, and notified to His Imperial 
Highness that the comedy was ready. The 
Grand-duke offered his arm to the Ambassadress ; 
the rest were following; Coningsby was called; 
Madame Colonna wished him to be her beau. 

It was a very pretty theatre ; had been rapidly 
rubbed up and renovated here and there ; the 
painting just touched ; a little gilding on a cor- 
nice. There were no boxes, but the ground-floor, 
which gradually ascended, was carpeted and cov- 
ered with arm-chairs, and the back of the theatre 
with a new and rich curtain of green velvet. 

They are all seated ; a great artist performs 
on the violin, accompanied by another great 
artist on the piano. The lights rise ; somebody 
evidently crosses the stage behind the curtain. 
They are disposing the scene. In a moment the 
curtain will rise also. 

“ Have you seen Lucretia ? ” said the Princess 
to Coningsby. “She is so anxious to resume her 
acquaintance with you.” 

But, before he could answer, the bell rang, 
and the curtain rose. 

The old man, who had a droll part to-night, 
came forward and maintained a conversation 
with bis housekeeper; not bad. The young 
woman w r ho played the grave matron performed 
with great finish. She was a favorite, and 
was ever applauded. The second scene came ; a 
saloon tastefully furnished ; a table with flowers, 
arranged with grace ; birds in cages, a lap-dog on 
a cushion ; some books. The audience were 
pleased ; especially the ladies : they like to recog- 
nize signs of bon ton in the details of the scene. 
A rather awful pause ; and Mademoiselle Flora 
enters. She was greeted with even vehement 
approbation. Her agitation is extreme ; she 
curtseys, and bows her head, as if to hide her 
face. The face was pleasing, and pretty enough ; 
soft and engaging. Her figure slight and rather 
graceful. Nothing could be more perfect than 
her costume ; purely white, but the fashion con- 
summate; a single rose her only ornament. All 


67 

admitted that her hair was arranged to admira- 
tion. 

At length she spoke : her voice trembled, but 
she had a good elocution, though her organ 
wanted force. The gentlemen look at each other, 
and nodded approbation. There was something 
so unobtrusive in her mien, that she instantly 
became a favorite with the ladies. The scene 
was not long, but it was successful. 

Flora did not appear in the next scene. In 
the fourth and fiual one of the act, she had to 
make a grand display. It was a love-scene, and 
rather of an impassioned character ; Villebecque 
was her suitor. He entered first on the stage. 
Never had he looked so well, or performed with 
more spirit. You would not have given him five- 
and-twenty years ; he seemed redolent of youth. 
His dress, too, was admirable. He had studied 
the most distinguished of his audience for the 
occasion, and had outdone them all. The fact is, 
he had been assisted a little by a great connois- 
seur, a celebrated French nobleman, Count, 

D v, who had been one of the guests. The 

thing was perfect ; and Lord Monmouth took a 
pinch of snuff, and tapped approbation on the 
top of his box. 

Flora now re-appeared, received with renewed 
approbation. It did not seem, however, that in 
the interval she had gained courage ; she looked 
agitated. She spoke, she proceeded with her 
part ; it became impassioned. She had to speak 
of her feelings ; to tell the secrets of her heart ; 
to confess that she loved another : her emotion 
was exquisitely performed, the mournful tender- 
ness of her tones thrilling. There was, through- 
out the audience, a dead silence; all were ab- 
sorbed in their admiration of the unrivalled artist ; 
all felt a new genius had visited the stage — but 
while they were fascinated by the actress, the 
woman was in torture. The emotion was the 
disturbance of her own soul ; the mournful ten- 
derness of her tones thrilled from the heart : sud- 
denly she clasped her hands with all the exhaust- 
ion of woe ; an expression of agony flitted over 
her countenance; and she burst into tears. 
Villebecque rushed forward, and carried, rather 
than led, her from the stage ; the audience look- 
ing at each other, some of them suspecting that 
this movement was a part of the scene. 

“ She has talent,” said Lord Monmouth to 
the Russian Ambassadress, “but wants practice. 
Villebecque should send her for a time to the 
provinces.” 

At length M. Villebecque came forward to ex- 
press his deep regret that the sudden and severe 
indisposition of Mile. Flora rendered it impossible 
for the company to proceed with the piece ; but 
that the curtain would descend to rise again for 
the second and last piece announced. 

All this accordingly took place. The experi- 
enced performer who acted the heroines now 
came forward and disported most jocundly. The 
failure of Flora had given fresh animation to her 
perpetual liveliness. She seemed the very soul 
of elegant frolic. In the last scene she figured 
in male attire ; and in air, fashion, and youth, 
beat Villebecque out of the field. She looked 
younger than Coningsby when he went up to his 
grandpapa. 

The comedy was over, the curtain fell ; the 


68 


CONINGSBY. 


audience, much amused, chattered brilliant criti- 
cism, and quitted the theatre to repair to the 
saloon where they were to be diverted to-night 
with Russian dances. Nobody thought of the 
unhappy Flora ; not a single message to console 
her in her grief, to compliment her on what she 
had done, to encourage her future. And yet it 
was a season for a word of kindness ; so, at 
least, thought one of the audience, as he lingered 
behind the hurrying crowd, absorbed in their 
coming amusements. 

Coningsby had sat very near the stage ; he 
had observed, with great advantage and atten- 
tion, the countenance and movements of Flora 
from the beginning. He was fully persuaded 
that her woe was genuine and profound. He had 
felt his eyes moist when she wept. He recoiled 
from the cruelty and the callousness that, with- 
out the slightest symptom of sympathy, could 
leave a young girl who had been laboring for 
their amusement, and who was suffering for her 
trial. 

He got on the stage, ran behind the scenes, 
and asked for Mile. Flora. They pointed to a 
door ; he requested permission to enter. Flora 
was sitting at a table, with her face resting on 
her hands. Villebecque was there, l’esting on 
the edge of the tall fender, and still in the dress 
in which he had performed in the last piece. 

“ I took the liberty,” said Coningsby, “ of in- 
quiring after Mile. Flora ; ” and then advancing 
to her, who had raised her head, he added, “ I 
am sure my grandfather must feel much indebted 
to you, Mademoiselle, for making such exertions 
when you are suffering under so much indisposi- 
tion.” 

“ This is very amiable of you, sir,” said the 
young lady, looking at him with earnestness. 

“ Mademoiselle has too much sensibility,” said 
Villebecque, making an observation by way of 
diversion. 

“ And yet that must be the soul of fine act- 
ing,” said Coningsby ; “ I look forward — all look 
forward — with great interest to the next occasion 
on which you will favor us.” 

“ Never ! ” said La Petite in a plaintive tone ; 
“ oh, I hope, never ! ” 

“Mademoiselle is not aware at this moment,” 
said Coningsby, “ how much her talent is appre- 
ciated. I assure you, sir,” he added, turning to 
Villebecque, “ I heard but one opinion, but one 
expression of gratification at her feeling and her 
fine taste.” 

“ The talent is hereditary,” said Villebecque. 

“ Indeed you have reason to say so,” said 
Coningsby. 

“ Pardon ; I was not thinking of myself. My 
child reminded me so much of another this even- 
ing. But that is nothing. I am glad you are 
here, sir, to reassure Mademoiselle.” 

“ I came only to congratulate her, and to la- 
ment, for our sakes as well as her own, her indis- 
position. 

“ It is not indisposition,” said La Petite, in a 
low tone, with her eyes cast down. 

“ Mademoiselle cannot overcome the nervous- 
ness incidental to a first appearance,” said Ville- 
becque. 

“ A last appearance,” said La Petite ; “ yes, it 
must be the last.” She rose gently, she ap- 


proached Villebecque, she laid her head on his 
breast, and placed her arms round his neck, “ My 
father, my best father, yes, say it is the last ! ” 

“ You are mistress of your lot, Flora,” said 
Villebecque ; “ but with such a distinguished tal- 
ent ” 

“ No, no, no ; no talent. You are wrong, my 
father. I know myself. I am not of those to 
whom nature gives talents. I am born only for 
still life. I have no taste except for privacy. The 
convent is more suited to me than the stage.” 

“But you hear what this gentleman says,” 
said Villebecque, returning her embrace. “ He 
tells you that his grandfather — my Lord Mar- 
quess, I believe, sir, — that every one — that ” 

“Oh, no, no, no!” said Flora, shaking her 
head. “ He comes here because he is generous, 
because he is a gentleman ; and he wished to 
soothe the soul that he knew was suffering. 
Thank him, my father, thank him for me and be- 
fore me, and promise in his presence that the 
stage and your daughter have parted for ever.” 

“Nay, Mademoiselle,” said Coningsby, ad- 
vancing and venturing to take her hand, a soft 
hand, “make no such resolutions to-night. M. 
Villebecque can have no other thought or object 
but your happiness ; and, believe me, ’tis not I 
only, but all, who appreciate, and, if they were 
here, must respect, you.” 

“ I prefer respect to admiration,” said Flora ; 
“ but I fear that respect is not tbe appendage of 
such as I am.” 

“All must respect those who respect them- 
selves,” said Coningsby. “Adieu, Mademoiselle; 
I trust to-morrow to hear that you are yourself.” 
He bowed to Villebecque and retired. 

In the meantime affairs in the drawing-room 
assumed a very different character from those be- 
hind the scenes. Coningsby returned to brillian- 
cy, groups apparently gushing with light-hearted 
ness, universal content, and Russian dances ! 

“And you too, do you dance the Russian 
dances, Mr. Coningsby ? ” said Madame Colonna. 

“ I cannot dance at all,” said Coningsby, be- 
ginning a little to lose his pride in the want of an 
accomplishment which at Eton he had thought it 
spirited to despise. 

“ Ah ! you cannot dance the Russian dances ! 
Lucretia shall teach you,” said the princess ; 
“ nothing will please her so much.” 

On the present occasion the ladies were not 
so experienced in the entertainment as the gen- 
tlemen ; but there was amusement in being in- 
structed. To be disciplined by a Grand-duke or 
a Russian Princess was all very well ; but what 
even the good-tempered Lady Gaytliorpe could not 
pardon was, that a certain Mrs. Guy Flouncey 
whom they were all of them trying to put down 
and to keep down, on this, as' almost on every 
other occasion, proved herself a more finished 
performer than even the Russians themselves. 

Lord Monmouth had picked up the Guy 
Flounceys during a Roman winter. They were 
people of some position in society. Mr. Guy 
Flouncey was a man of good estate, a sportsman, 
proud of his pretty wife. Mrs. Guy Flouncey was 
even very pretty, dressed in a style of ultra' fash- 
ion. However, she could sing, dance, act, ride, 
and talk, and all well ; and was mistress of the 
art of flirtation. She had amused the Marquess 


MRS. GUY FLOUNCEY. 


69 


abroad, and had taken care to call at Monmouth 
House the instant the Morning Post apprised her 
he had arrived in England ; the consequence was 
an invitation to Coningsby. She came with a 
wardrobe which, in point of variety, fancy and 
fashion, never was surpassed. Morning and even- 
ing, every day a new dress equally striking ; 
and a riding-habit that was the talk and wonder 
of the whole neighborhood. Mrs. Guy Flouncey 
created far more sensation in the borough when 
she rode down the High Street, than what the 
good people called the real princesses. 

At first the fine ladies never noticed her, or 
only stared at her over their shoulders ; every- 
where sounded, in suppressed whispers, the fatal 
question, “ Who is she ? ” After dinner they 
formed always into polite groups, from which 
Mrs. Guy Flouncey was invariably excluded ; and 
if ever the Princess Colonna, impelled partly by 
good-nature, and partly from having known her 
on the Continent, did kindly sit by her, Lady St. 
Julians, or some dame equally benevolent, was 
sure, by an adroit appeal to her Highness on some 
point which could not be decided without mov- 
ing, to withdraw her from her pretty and perse- 
cuted companion. 

It was, indeed, rather difficult work the first 
few days *for Mrs. Guy Flouncey, especially im- 
mediately after dinner. It is not soothing to 
one’s self-love to find oneself sitting alone, pre- 
tending to look at prints, in a fine drawing-room, 
full of fine people who don’t speak to you. But 
Mrs. Guy Flouncey, after having taken Coningsby 
Castle by storm, was not to be driven out of its 
drawing-room by the tactics even of a Lady St. 
Julians. Experience convinced her that all that 
was required was a little patience. Mrs. Guy 
had confidence in herself, her quickness, her ever 
ready accomplishments, and her practised powers 
of attraction. And she was right. She was al- 
ways sure of an ally the moment the gentlemen 
appeared. The cavalier who had sat next to her 
at dinner was only too happy to meet her again. 
More than once, too, she had caught her noble 
host, though a whole garrison was ever on the 
watch to prevent her, and he was greatly amused, 
and showed that he was greatly amused by her 
society. Then she suggested plans to him to di- 
vert his guests. In a country-house the sugges- 
tive mind is inestimable. Somehow or other, 
before a week was passed, Mrs. Guy Flouncey 
seemed the soul of everything, was always sur- 
rounded by a cluster of admirers, and with what 
are called “ the best men ” ever ready to ride with 
her, dance with her, act with her, or fall at her 
feet. The fine ladies found it absolutely neces- 
sary to thaw: they began to ask her questions 
after dinner. Mrs. Guy Flouncey only wanted 
an opening. She was an adroit flatterer, with a 
temper imperturbable, and gifted with a ceaseless 
energy of conferring slight obligations. She lent 
them patterns for new fashions, in all which mys- 
teries she was very versant ; and what with 
some gentle glozing and some gay gossip, sugar 
for their tongues and salt for their tails, she con- 
trived pretty well to catch them all. 


CHAPTER IX. 

Nothing could present a greater contrast 
than the respective interiors of Coningsby and 
Beaumanoir. That air of habitual habitation, 
which so pleasingly distinguished the Duke’s fam- 
ily seat, was entirely wanting at Coningsby, 
Everything, indeed, was vast and splendid; but 
it seemed rather a gala-house than a dwelling ; 
as if the grand furniture and the grand servants 
had all come down express from town with the 
grand company, and were to disappear and to be 
dispersed at the same time. And truly there 
were very manifold traces of hasty and tempora- 
ry arrangement ; new carpets and old hangings ; 
old paint, new gilding ; battalions of odd French 
chairs, squadrons of queer English tables ; and 
large tasteless lumps and tawdry chandeliers, evi- 
dently true cockneys, and only taking the air by 
way of change. There was, too, throughout the 
drawing-rooms an absence of all those minor ar- 
ticles of ornamental furniture that are the offering 
of taste to the home we love. There were no 
books neither ; no flowers ; no pet animals ; no 
portfolios of fine drawings by our English artists 
like the album of the Duchess, full of sketches by 
Landseer and Stanfield, and their gifted brethren ; 
not a print even, except portfolios of H. B.’s car- 
icatures. The modes and manners of the house 
were not rural ; there was nothing of the sweet 
order of a country life. Nobody came down to 
breakfast; the ladies were scarcely seen until 
dinner-time; they rolled about in carriages to- 
gether late in the afternoon as if they were in 
London, or led a sort of factitious boudoir life in 
their provincial dressing-rooms. 

The Marquess sent for Coningsby the morn- 
ing after his arrival and asked him to breakfast 
with him in his private rooms. Nothing could 
be more kind or more agreeable than his grand- 
father. He appeared to be very interested in his 
grandson’s progress, was glad to find Coningsby 
had distinguished himself at Eton, solemnly ad- 
jured him not to neglect his French. A classical 
education, he said, was a very admirable thing, 
and one which all gentlemen should enjoy ; but 
Coningsby would find some day that there were 
two educations, one which his position required, 
and another which was demanded by the world. 
“French, my dear Harry,” he continued, “ is the 
key to this second education. In a couple of 
years or so you will enter the world ; it’s a differ- 
ent thing to what you read about. It’s a mas- 
querade ; a motley, sparkling multitude, in which 
you may mark all forms and colors, and listen to 
all sentiments and opinions ; but where all you 
see and hear has only one object — plunder. When 
you get into this crowd you will find that Greek 
and Latin are not so much diffused as you ima- 
gine. I was glad to hear you speaking French 
yesterday. Study your accent. There are a good 
many foreigners here with whom you may try 
your wing a little ; don’t talk to any of them too 
much. Be very careful of intimacies. All the 
people here are good acquaintance ; at least pretty 
well. Now, here,” said the Marquess, taking up 
a letter and then throwing it on the table again, 
“ now here is a man whom I should like you to 
know, Sidonia. He will be here in a few days. 


70 


CONINGSBY. 


Lay yourself out for him if you have the oppor- 
tunity. He is a man of rare capacity, and enor- 
mously rich. No one knows the world like Si- 
donia. I never met his equal ; and ’tis so pleas- 
ant to talk with one that can want nothing ot 
you.” 

Lord Monmouth had invited Coningsby to 
take a drive with him in the afternoon. The 
Marquess wished to show a part of his domain to 
the Ambassadress. Only Lueretia, he said, would 
be with them, and there was a place for him. 
This invitation was readily accepted by Coningsby, 
who was not yet sufficiently established in the 
habits of the house exactly to know how to pass 
his morning. His friend and patron, Mr. Rigby, 
was entirely taken up with the Grand-duke, whom 
he was accompanying all over the neighborhood, 
in visits to manufactures, many of which Rigby 
himself saw for the first time, but all of which he 
fluently explained to his Imperial Highness. In 
return for this, he extracted much information 
from the Grand-duke on Russian plans and pro- 
jects, materials for a “slashing” article against 
the Russophobia that he was preparing, and in 
which he was to prove that Muscovite aggression 
was an English interest, and entirely to be ex- 
plained by the want of sea-coast, which drove the 
Czar, for the pure purposes of commerce, to the 
Baltic and the Euxine. 

When the hour for the drive arrived, Con- 
ingsby found Lueretia, a young girl when he had 
first seen her only four years back, and still his 
junior, in that majestic dame who had conceded 
a superb recognition to him the preceding eve. 
She really looked older than Madame Colonna ; 
who, very beautiful, very young-looking, and 
mistress of the real arts of the toilet, those that 
cannot be detected, was not in the least altered 
since she first so cordially saluted Coningsby as 
her dear young friend at Monmouth House. 

The day was delightful, the park extensive 
and picturesque, the Ambassadress sparkling with 
anecdote, and occasionally, in a low voice, breach- 
ing a diplomatic hint to Lord Monmouth, who 
bowed his graceful consciousness of her distin- 
guished confidence. Coningsby occasionally took 
advantage of one of those moments, when the 
conversation ceased to be general, to address 
Lueretia, who replied in calm, fine smiles, and 
in affable monosyllables. She, indeed, generally 
succeeded in conveying an impression to those 
she addressed, that she had never seen them be- 
fore, did not care to see them now, and never 
wished to see them again. And all this, too, with 
an air of great courtesy. 

They aridved at the brink of a wooded bank ; 
at their feet flowed a very fine river, deep and 
rushing, though not broad ; its opposite bank the 
boundary of a richly-timbered park. 

“Ah! this is beautiful!” exclaimed the Am- 
bassadress. “And is that yours, Lord Mon- 
mouth ? ” 

“Not yet,” said the Marquess. “That is 
Hellingsley ; it is one of the finest places in the 
county, with a splendid estate; not so consider- 
able as Coningsby, but very great. It belongs to 
an old, a very old man, without a relative in the 
world. It is known that the estate will be sold 
at his death, which maybe almost daily expected. 
Then it is mine. No one can offer for it what I 


can afford. For it gives me this division of the 
county, Princess. To possess Hellingsley is one 
of my objects.” The Marquess spoke with an 
animation unusual with him, almost with a de- 
gree of excitement. 

The wind met them as they returned, the 
breeze blew rather freshly. Lueretia all of a sud- 
den seemed touched with unusual emotion. She 
was alarmed lest Lord Monmouth should catch 
cold, she took a kerchief from her own well- 
turned throat to tie round his neck. He feebly 
resisted, evidently much pleased. 

The Princess Lueretia was highly accomplish- 
ed. In the evening, having refused several dis- 
tinguished guests, but instantly yielding to the 
request of Lord Monmouth, she sang. It was im- 
possible to conceive a contralto of more thrilling 
power, or an execution more worthy of the voice. 
Coningsby, who w r as not experienced in fine sing- 
ing, listened as if to a supernatural lay, but all 
agreed it was of the highest class of nature and 
of art ; and the Grand-duke was in raptures. 
Lueretia received even his Highness’s compliments 
with a graceful indifference. Indeed, to those 
who watched her demeanor, it might be remarked 
that she seemed to yield to none, although all 
bowed before her. 

Madame Colonna, who was always extremely 
kind to Coningsby, expressed to him her gratifi- 
cation from the party of the morning. It must 
have been delightful, she assured Coningsby, for 
Lord Monmouth to have had both Lueretia and 
his grandson with him ; and Lueretia too, she 
added, must have been so pleased. 

Coningsby could not make out why Madame 
Colonna was always intimating to him that the 
Princess Lueretia took such great interest in his 
existence, looked forward with such gratification 
to his society 7 , remembered with so much pleasure 
the past, anticipated so much happiness from the 
future. It appeared to him that he was to Lucre- 
tia, if not an object of repugnance, as he some- 
times fancied, certainly one only of absolute in- 
difference ; but he said nothing. He had already 
lived long enough to know that it is unwise to 
wish everything explained. 

In the meantime, his life was agreeable. 
Every day, he found, added to his acquaintance. 
He was never without a companion to ride or to 
shoot with ; and of riding Coningsby was very 
fond. His grandfather, too, was continually giv- 
ing him good-natured turns, and making him of 
consequence in the Castle; so that all the guests 
were fully impressed with the importance of Lord 
Monmouth’s grandson. Lady St. Julians pro- 
nounced him distinguished ; the Ambassadress 
thought diplomacy should be his part, as he had 
a fine person and a clear brain; Madame Colonna 
spoke of him always as if she took intense inter- 
est in his career, and declared that she liked him 
almost as much as Lueretia did; the Russians 
persisted in always styling him “ the young Mar- 
quess,” notwithstanding the Ambassador’s ex- 
planations ; Mrs. Guy Flouncey made a dashing 
attack on him ; but Coningsby remembered a 
lesson which Lady Everingham had graciously be- 
stowed on him. He was not to be caught again 
easily. Besides, Mrs. Guy Flouncey laughed a 
little too much, aud talked a little too loud. 

As time flew on, there were changes of visi- 


now LIFE GLIDED AWAY AT THE CASTLE. 


71 


tors, chiefly among the single men. At the end 
of the first week after Coningsby’s arrival, Lord 
Eskdale appeared, bringing with him Lucian Gay ; 
and soon after followed the Marquess of Beauma- 
noir and Mr. Melton. These were all heroes who, 
in their way, interested the ladies, and whose ad- 
vent was hailed with general satisfaction. Even 
Lucretia would relax a little to Lord Eskdale. 
lie was one of her oldest friends, and with a sim- 
plicity of manner which amounted almost to 
plainness, and with rather a cynical nonchalance 
in his carriage towards men, Lord Eskdale was 
invariably a favorite with women. To be sure, 
his station was eminent ; he was noble, and vei’y 
rich, and very powerful, and these are qualities 
■which tell as much with the softer as the harsher 
sex ; — but there are individuals with all these 
qualities who are nevertheless unpopular with 
women. Lord Eskdale was easy, knew the world 
thoroughly, had no prejudices, and, above all, had 
a reputation for success. A reputation for suc- 
cess has as much influence with women, as a 
reputation for wealth has with men. Both repu- 
tations may be, and often are, unjust ; but we see 
persons daily make good fortunes by them all the 
same. Lord Eskdale was not an impostor ; and 
though he might not have been so successful a 
man had he not been Lord Eskdale, still, thrown 
over by a revolution, he would have lighted on 
his legs. 

The arrival of this nobleman was the occasion 
of giving a good turn to poor Flora. He went 
immediately to see his friend Villebecque and his 
troop. Indeed it was a sort of society which 
pleased Lord Eskdale more than that which is 
deemed more refined. He was very sorry about 
“ La Petite ; ” but thought that everything would 
come right in the long run ; and told Villebecque 
that he was glad to hear him well spoken of here 
especially by the Marquess, who seemed to take 
to him. As for Flora, he was entirely against 
her attempting the stage again, at least for the 
present, but, as she was a good musician, he sug- 
gested to the Princess Lucretia one night, that 
the subordinate aid of Flora might be of service 
to her, and permit her to favor her friends with 
some pieces which othemvise she must deny to 
them. This suggestion was successful ; Flora 
was introduced occasionally, soon often, to their 
parties in the evening, and her performances were 
in every respect satisfactory. There was nothing 
to excite the jealousy of Lucretia either in her 
style or her person. And yet she sang well 
enough, and was a quiet, refined, retiring, by no 
means disagreeable person. She was the com- 
panion of Lucretia very often in the morning as 
well as in the illumined saloon; for the Princess 
was very devoted to the art in which she excelled. 
This connexion on the whole contributed to the 
happiness of poor Flora. True it was, in the 
evening she often found herself sitting or stand- 
ing alone and no one noticing her; she had no 
dazzling quality to attract men of fashion, who 
themselves love to worship ever the fashionable. 
Even their goddesses must be d la mode. But 
Coningsby never omitted an opportunity to show 
Flora some kindness under these circumstances. 
He always came and talked to her, and praised 
her singing, and would sometimes hand her re- 
freshments and give her his arm if necessary. 


These slight attentions coming from the grand- 
son of Lord Monmouth were for the world re- 
doubled in their value ; though Flora thought 
only of their essential kindness ; all in character 
with that first visit which dwelt on the poor girl’s 
memory, though it had long ago escaped that of 
her visitor. For in truth Coningsby had no other 
impulse for his conduct but kind-heartedness. 

Thus we have attempted to give some faint 
idea how life glided away at the Castle the first 
fortnight that Coningsby passed there. Perhaps 
we ought not to omit that Mrs. Guy Flouncey, to 
the infinite disgust of Lady St. Julians, who had 
a daughter with her, successfully entrapped the 
devoted attentions of the young Marquess of 
Beaumanoir, who was ne’rbr very backward if a 
lady would take trouble enough ; while his friend, 
Mr. Melton, whose barren homage Lady St. Ju- 
lians wished her daughter ever particularly to 
shun, employed all his gaiety, good-humor, fri- 
volity, and fashion, in amusing. that young lady, 
and with irresistible effect. For the rest, they 
continued, though they had only partridges to 
shoot, to pass the morning without weariness. 
The w'eather was fine ; the stud numerous ; all 
might be mounted. The Grand-duke and his 
suite, guided by Mr. Rigby, had always some ob- 
jects to visit, and railroads returned them just in 
time for the banquet with an appetite which they 
had earned, and during which Rigby recounted 
their achievements, and his own opinions. 

The dinner was always first-rate ; the evening 
never failed ; music, dancing, and the theatre, 
offered great resources independently of the soul- 
subduing sentiment harshly called flirtation, and 
wdfich is the spell of a country-house. Lord 
Monmouth was satisfied, for he had scarcely ever 
felt wearied. All that he required in life was to 
be amused ; perhaps that was not all he required, 
but it was indispensable. Nor w r as it -wonderful 
that on the present occasion he obtained his pur- 
pose, for there were half a hundred of the bright- 
est eyes and quickest brains ever on the watch or 
the whirl, to secure him distraction. The only 
circumstance that annoyed him was the non-ar- 
rival of Sidonia. Lord Monmouth could not bear 
to be disappointed. He could not refrain from 
saying, notwithstanding all the resources and all 
the exertions of his guests, — 

“ I cannot understand why Sidonia does not 
come. I wish Sidonia were here.” 

“ So do I,” said Lord Eskdale ; “ Sidonia is 
the only man who tells one anything new.” 

“ We saw Sidonia at Lord Studcaster’s,” said 
Lord Beaumanoir. “He told Melton he was 
coming here.” 

“ You know he has bought all Studcaster’s 
horses,” said Mr. Melton. 

“ I wonder he does not buy Studcaster him- 
self,” said Lord Monmouth, “ I would if I -were 
he; Sidonia can buy anything,” he turned to 
Mrs. Guy Flouncey. 

“ I wonder who Sidonia is,” thought Mrs. 
Guy Flouucey, but she was determined no one 
should suppose she did not know. 

At length one day Coningsby met Madame 
Colonna in the vestibule before dinner. 

“ Milor is in such good temper, Mr. Conings- 
by,” she said ; “ Monsieur de Sidonia has ar- 
rived.” 


72 


CONINGSBY. 


About ten minutes before dinner there was a 
stir in the chamber, Coningsby looked round. 
He saw the Grand-duke advancing, and holding 
out his hand in a manner the most gracious. A 
gentleman, of distinguished air, but with his back 
turned to Coningsby, was bowing as he received 
his Highness’s greeting. There was a general 
pause in the room. Several came forward ; even 
the Marquess seemed a little moved. Coningsby 
could not resist the impulse of curiosity to see 
this individual of whom he had heard so much. 
He glided round the room, and caught the coun- 
tenance of his companion in the forest inn ; he 
who announced to him, that “ the Age of Ruins 
was past.” 


CHAPTER X. 

Sidonia was descended from a very ancient 
and noble family of Arragon, that, in the course 
of ages, had given to the state many distinguished 
citizens. In the priesthood its members had 
been peculiarly eminent. Besides several pre- 
lates, they counted among their number an Arch- 
bishop of Toledo ; and a Sidonia, in a season of 
great danger and difficulty, had exercised for a 
series of years the paramount office of Grand In- 
quisitor. 

Yet, strange as it may sound, is neverthe- 
less a fact, of which there is no lack of evi- 
dence, that this illustrious family during all this 
period, in common with two-thirds of the Arra- 
gonese nobility, secretly adhered to the ancient 
faith and ceremonies of their fathers — a belief in 
the unity of the God of Sinai, and the rites and 
observances of the laws of Moses. 

Whence came those Mosaic Arabs whose pas- 
sages across the Strait from Africa to Europe 
long preceded the invasion of the Mohammedan 
Arabs, it is now impossible to ascertain. Their 
traditions tell us that from time immemorial they 
had sojourned in Africa ; and it is not improbable 
that they may have been the descendants of some 
of the earlier dispersions; like those Hebrew 
colonies that we find in China, and who probably 
emigrated from Persia in the days of the great 
monarchies. Whatever may have been their ori- 
gin in Africa, their fortunes in southern Europe 
are not difficult to trace, though the annals of no 
race in any age can detail a history of such 
strange vicissitudes, or one rife with more touch- 
ing and romantic incident. Their unexampled 
prosperity in the Spanish Peninsula, and especial- 
ly in the south, where they had become the prin- 
cipal cultivators of the soil, excited the jealousy of 
the Goths ; and the Councils of Toledo during the 
sixth and seventh centuries attempted, by a series 
of decrees worthy of the barbarians who promulga- 
ted them, to root the Jewish Arabs out of the land. 
There is no doubt the Council of Toledo led, as di- 
rectly as the lust of Roderick, to the invasion of 
Spain by the Moslemin Arabs. The Jewish popula- 
tion, suffering under the most sanguinary and atro- 
cious persecution, looked to their sympathising 
brethren of the Crescent, whose camps already 
gleamed on the opposite shore. The overthrow of 
the Gothic kingdoms was as much achieved by 
the superior information which the Saracens re- 


ceived from their suffering kinsmen, as by the resist- 
less valor of the Desert. The Saracen kingdoms 
were established. That fair and unrivalled civ- 
ilisation arose which preserved for Europe arts 
and letters when Christendom was plunged in 
darkness. The children of Islimael rewarded the 
children of Israel with equal rights and privileges 
with themselves. During these halcyon centu- 
ries, it is difficult to distinguish the follower of 
Moses from the votary of Mahomet. Both alike 
built palaces, gardens, and fountains ; filled equal- 
ly the highest offices of the state, competed 
in an extensive and enlightened commerce, and 
rivalled each other in renowned universities. 

Even after the fall of the principal Moorish 
kingdoms, the Jews of Spain were still treated 
by the conquering Goths with tenderness and 
consideration. Their numbers, their wealth, the 
fact that, in Arragon especially, they were the 
proprietors of the soil, and surrounded by war- 
like and devoted followers, secured for them an 
usage which, for a considerable period, made 
them little sensible of the change of dynasties 
and religions. But the tempest gradually gath- 
ered. As the Goths grew stronger, persecution 
became more bold. Where the Jewish population 
was scanty they were deprived of their privileges, 
or obliged to conform under the title of “Nuevos 
Christianos.” At length the union of the two 
crowns under Ferdinand and Isabella, and the 
fall of the last Moorish kingdom, brought the 
crisis of their fate both to the new Christian and 
the non-conforming Hebrew. The Inquisition ap- 
peared — the Institution that had exterminated 
the Albigenses and had desolated Languedoc, 
and which it should ever be remembered was es- 
tablished in the Spanish kingdoms against the 
protests of the Cortes and amid the terror of the 
populace. The Dominicans opened their first 
tribunal at Seville, and it is curious that the first 
individuals they summoned before them were the 
Duke of Medina Sidonia, the Marquess of Cadiz, 
and the Count of Arcos ; three of the most con- 
siderable personages in Spain. How many were 
burned alive at Seville during the first year, how 
many imprisoned for life, what countless thou- 
sands were visited with severe though lighter pun- 
ishments, need not be recorded here. In nothing 
was the Holy Office more happy than in multi- 
form and subtle means by which they tested the 
sincerity of the New Christians. 

At length the Inquisition was to be extended 
to Arragon. The high-spirited nobles of that 
kingdom knew that its institution was for them a 
matter of life or death. The Cortes of Arragon 
appealed to the King and to the Pope ; they or- 
ganised an extensive conspiracy ; the chief In- 
quisitor was assassinated in the Cathedral of Sar- 
agossa. Alas ! it was fated that in this, one of 
the many, and continual, and continuing struggles 
between the rival organisations of the North and 
the South the children of the sun should fall. 
The fagot and the San Benito were the doom of 
the nobles of Arragon. Those who were con- 
victed of secret Judaism, and this scarcely three 
centuries ago, were dragged to the stake ; the 
sons of the noblest houses, in whose veins the He- 
brew taint could be traced, had to walk in solemn 
procession, singing psalms, and confessing their 
faith in the religion of the fell Torquemada. 


THE SIDONIAS. 


73 


This triumph in Arragou, the almost simul- 
taneous fall of the last Moorish kingdom, raised 
the hopes of the pure Christians to the highest 
pitch. Having purged the new Christians, they 
next turned their attention to the old Hebrews. 
Ferdinand was resolved that the delicious air of 
Spain should be breathed no longer by any one 
who did not profess the Catholic faith. Baptism 
or exile was the alternative. More than six hun- 
dred thousand individuals (some authorities great- 
ly increase the amount), the most industrious, the 
most intelligent, and the most enlightened of 
Spanish subjects, would not desert the religion 
of their fathers. For this they gave up the de- 
lightful land wherein they had lived for centuries, 
the beautiful cities they had raised, the universi- 
ties from which Christendom drew for ages its 
most precious lore, the tombs of their ancestors, 
the temples where they had worshipped the God 
for whom they had made this sacrifice. They had 
but four months to prepare for eternal exile, 
after a residence of as many centuries ; during 
which brief period forced sales and glutted mar- 
kets virtually confiscated their property. It is a 
calamity that the scattered nation still ranks with 
the desolations of Nebuchadnezzar and of Titus. 
Who after this should sqj’ the Jews by nature are 
a sordid people ? But the Spanish Goth, then so 
cruel and so haughty, where is he ? A despised 
suppliant to the very race which he banished, for 
some miserable portion of the treasure which 
their habits of industry have again accumulated. 
Where is that tribunal that summoned Medina 
Sidonia and Cadiz to its dark inquisition ? 
Where is Spain ? Its fall, its unparalleled and its 
irremediable fall, is mainly to be attributed to the 
expulsion of that large portion of its subjects, the 
most industrious and intelligent, who traced their 
origin to the Mosaic and Mohammedan Arabs. 

The Sidonias of Arragon were Nuevos Chris- 
tianos. Some of them, no doubt, were burned 
alive at the end of the fifteenth century, under 
the system of Torquemada ; many of them, 
doubtless, wore the San Benito; but they kept 
their titles and estates, and in time reached those 
great offices to which we have referred. 

During the long disorders of the Peninsular 
war, when so many openings were offered to tal- 
ent, and so many opportunities seized by the ad- 
venturous, a cadet of a younger branch of this 
family made a large fortune by military con- 
tracts, and supplying the commissariat of the 
different armies. At the peace, prescient of the 
great financial future of Europe, confident in the 
fertility of his own genius, in his original views 
of fiscal subjects, and his knowledge of national 
resources, this Sidonia, feeling that Madrid, or 
even Cadiz, could never be a base on which the 
monetary transactions of the world could be reg- 
ulated, resolved to emigrate to England, with 
which he had, in the course of years, formed con- 
siderable commercial connections. He arrived 
here after the peace of Paris, with his large capi- 
tal. He staked all that he was worth on the 
Waterloo loan ; and the event made him one of 
the greatest capitalists in Europe. 

No sooner was Sidonia established in England 
than he professed Judaism ; which Torquemada 
flattered himself, with the fagot and the San Beni- 
to, he had drained out of the veins of his fami- 


ly more than three centuries ago. He sent over, 
also, for several of his brothers who were as good 
Catholics in Spain as Ferdinand and Isabella could 
have possibly desired, but who made an offering 
in the synagogue, in gratitude for their safe 
voyage, on their arrival in England. 

Sidonia had foreseen in Spain that, after the 
exhaustion of a war of twenty-five years, Europe 
must require capital to carry on peace. He 
reaped the due reward of his sagacity. Europe 
did require money, and Sidonia was ready to lend 
it to Europe. France wanted some ; Austria 
more ; Prussia a little ; Russia a few millions. 
Sidonia could furnish them all. The only country 
which he avoided was Spain ; he was too w r ell ac- 
quainted with its resources. Nothing, too, would 
ever tempt him to lend anything to the revolted 
colonies of Spain. Prudence saved him from be- 
ing a creditor of the mother country; his Spanish 
pride recoiled from the rebellion of her children. 

It is not difficult to conceive that, after hav- 
ing pursued the career we have intimated for 
about ten years, Sidonia had become one of the 
most considerable personages in Europe. He 
had established a brother, or a near relative, in 
whom he could confide, in most of the principal 
capitals. He was lord and master of the money- 
market of the world, and of course virtually lord 
and master of everything else. He literally held 
the revenues of Southern Italy in pawn ; and 
monarchs and ministers of all countries courted 
his advice and were guided by his suggestions. He 
was still in the vigor of life, and was not a mere 
money-making machine. He had a general in- 
telligence equal to his position, and looked for- 
ward to the period when some relaxation from 
his vast enterprises and exertions might enable 
him to direct his energies to great objects of pub- 
lic benefit. But in the height of his vast pros- 
perity he suddenly died, leaving only one child, a 
youth still of tender years, and heir to the great- 
est fortune in Europe, so great, indeed, that it 
could only be calculated by millions. 

Shut out from universities and schools which 
were indebted for their first knowledge of ancient 
philosophy, to the learning and enterprise of his 
ancestors, the young Sidonia was fortunate in the 
tutor whom his father had procured for him, and 
-who devoted to his charge all the resources of 
his trained intellect and vast and various erudi- 
tion. A Jesuit before the revolution ; since then 
an exiled Liberal leader ; now a member of the 
Spanish Cortes ; Rebello was always a Jew. He 
found in his pupil that precocity of intellectual 
development which is characteristic of the Ara- 
bian organisation. The young Sidonia penetrated 
the highest mysteries of mathematics with a 
facility almost instinctive ; while a memory, which 
never had any twilight hours, but always reflected 
a noontide clearness, seemed to magnify his acqui- 
sitions of ancient learning by the promptness with 
which they could be reproduced and applied. 

The circumstances of his position, too, had 
early contributed to give him an unusual com- 
mand over the modern languages. An English- 
man, and taught from his cradle to be proud of 
being an Englishman, he first evinced iu speak- 
ing his native language those remarkable powers 
of expression, and that clear and happy elocution, 
which ever afterwards distinguished him. But 


74 


CONINGSBY. 


the son of a Spaniard, the sonorous syllables of 
that noble tongue constantly resounded in his 
ear; while the foreign guests who thronged his 
father’s mansion habituated him from au early 
period of life to the tones of languages that were 
not long strange to him. When he was nineteen, 
Sidonia, who had then resided some time with 
his uncle at Naples, and had made a long visit to 
another of his father’s relatives at Frankfort, 
possessed a complete mastery over the principal 
European languages. 

At seventeen he had parted with Rebello, 
who returned to Spain, and Sidonia, under the 
control of his guardians, commenced his travels. 
He resided, as we have mentioned, some time in 
Germany, and then, having visited Italy, settled 
at Naples, at which city it may be said he made 
his entrance into life. With a very interesting 
person, and highly accomplished, he availed him- 
self of the gracious attentions of a Court of which 
he was principal creditor ; and which, treating 
him as a distinguished English traveller, were en- 
abled perhaps to show him some favors that the 
manners of the country might not have permitted 
them to accord to his Neapolitan relatives. Si- 
donia thus obtained at a very early age that ex- 
perience of refined and luxurious society, which 
is a necessary part of a finished education. It 
gives the last polish to the manners ; it teaches 
us something of the power of the passions, early 
developed in the hot-bed of self-indulgence ; it 
instils into us that indefinable tact seldom ob- 
tained in later life, which prevents us from say- 
ing the wrong thing, and often impels us to do 
the right. 

Between Paris and Naples Sidonia passed two 
years, spent apparently in the dissipation which 
was perhaps inseparable from his time of life. 
He was admired by women, to whom he was mag- 
nificent, idolised by artists whom he patronised, 
received in all circles with great distinction, and 
appreciated for his intellect by the very few to 
whom he at all opened himself. For, though 
affable and gracious, it was impossible to pene- 
trate him. Though very unreserved in his man- 
ner, his frankness was strickly limited to the sur- 
face. He observed everything, thought ever, 
but avoided serious discussion. If you pressed 
him for an opinion, he took refuge in raillery, or 
threw out some grave paradox with which it was 
not easy to cope. 

The moment he came of age, Sidonia, having 
previously, at a great family congress held at Na- 
ples, made arrangements with the heads of the 
houses that bore his name respecting the dispo- 
sition and management of his vast fortune, quit- 
ted Europe. 

Sidonia was absent from his connections for 
five years, during which period he never com- 
municated with them. They were aware of his 
existence only by the orders which he drew on 
them for payment, and which arrived from all 
quarters of the globe. It would appear from 
these documents that he had dwelt a considerable 
time in the Mediterranean regions ; penetrated 
Nilotic Africa to Sennaar and Abyssinia ; traversed 
the Asiatic continent to Tartary, whence he had 
visited Hindostan, and the isles of that Indian sea 
which are so little known. Afterwards he was 
heard of at Valparaiso, the Brazils, and Lima. 


He evidently remained some time at Mexico, 
which he quitted for the United States. One 
morning, without notice, he arrived in London. 

Sidonia had exhausted all the sources of hu- 
man knowledge : he was master of the learning 
of every nation, of all tonges dead or living, of 
every literature, Western and Oriental. He had 
pursued the speculations of science to their last 
term, and had himself illustrated them by observa- 
tion and experiment. He had lived in all orders 
of society, had viewed every combination of Na- 
ture and of Art, and had observed man under 
every phasis of civilisation. He had even studied 
him in the wilderness. The influence of creeds 
and laws, manners, customs, traditions, in all their 
diversities, had been subjected to his personal 
scrutiny. 

He brought to the study of this vast aggre- 
gate of knowledge a penetrative intellect that, 
matured by long meditation, and assisted by that 
absolute freedom from prejudice, which was the 
compensatory possession of a man without a 
country, permitted Sidonia to fathom, as it were 
by intuition, the depth of questions apparently 
the most difficult and profound. He possessed 
the rare faculty of communicating with precision 
ideas the most abstruse, aud in general a power of 
expression which arrests and satisfies attention. 

With all this knowledge, which no one knew 
more to prize, with boundless wealth, and with an 
athletic frame, which sickness had never tried, 
and which had avoided excess, Sidonia neverthe- 
less looked upon life with a glance rather of curi- 
osity than content. His religion walled him out 
from the pursuits of a citizen ; his riches deprived 
him of the stimulating anxieties of a man. He 
pei’ceived himself a lone being, alike without 
cares and without duties. 

To a man in his position there might yet seem 
one unfailing source of felicity and joy ; indepen- 
dent of creed, independent of country, indepen- 
dent even of character. He might have discovered 
that perpetual spring of happiness in the sensi- 
bility of the heart. But this was a sealed foun- 
tain to Sidonia. In his organisation there was a 
peculiarity, perhaps a great deficiency. He was 
a man without affections. It would be harsh to 
say he had no heart, for he was susceptible of 
deep emotions, but not for individuals. He was 
capable of rebuilding a town that was burned 
down ; of restoring a colony that had been de- 
stroyed by some awful visitation of Nature; of 
redeeming to liberty a horde of captives ; and of 
doing these great acts in secret ; for, void of all 
self-love, public approbation was worthless to 
him ; but the individual never touched him. Wom- 
an was to him a toy, man a machine. 

The lot the most precious to man, and which 
a beneficent Providence has made not the least 
common ; to find in another heart a perfect and 
profound sympathy ; to unite his existence with 
one who could share all his joys, soften all his 
sorrows, aid him in all his projects, respond to 
all his fancies, counsel him in his cares, and sup- 
port him in his perils; make life charming by her 
charms, interesting by her intelligence, and sweet 
by the vigilant variety of her tenderness ; to find 
your life blessed by such an influence, and to feel 
that your influence can bless such a life ; this lot 
the most divine of divine gifts, that power and 


SIDONIA A GREAT PHILOSOPHER. 


75 


even fame can never rival in its delights — all this 
Nature had denied to Sidonia. 

With an imagination as fiery as his native 
Desert, and an intellect as luminous as his native 
shy, he wanted, like that land, those softening 
dews without which the soil is barren, and the 
sunbeam as often a messenger of pestilence as 
an angel of regenerative grace. 

Such a temperament, though rare, is peculiar 
to the East. It inspired the founders of the great 
monarchies of antiquity, the prophets that the 
Desert has sent forth, the Tartar chiefs who have 
overrun the world ; it might be observed in the 
great Corsican, who, like most of the inhabitants 
of the Mediterranean isles, had probably Arab 
blood in his veins. It is a temperament that be- 
fits conquerors and legislators, but, in ordinary 
times and ordinary situations, entails on its pos- 
sessors only eccentric aberrations or profound 
melancholy. 

The only human quality that interested Sido- 
nia was Intellect. He cared not whence it came ; 
where it was to be found : creed, country, class, 
character, in this respect, were alike indifferent 
to him. The author, the artist, the man of 
science, never appealed to him in vain. Often 
he anticipated their wants and wishes. He en- 
couraged their society ; was as frank in his con- 
versation as he w r as generous in his contributions ; 
but the instant they ceased to be authors, artists, 
or philosophers, and their communications arose 
from anything but the intellectual quality which 
had originally interested him, the moment they 
were rash enough to approach intimacy and ap- 
pealed to the sympathising man, Instead of the 
congenial intelligence, he saw them no more. It 
was not however intellect merely in these unques- 
tionable shapes that commanded his notice. 
There was not an adventurer in Europe with 
whom he was not familiar. No Minister of State 
had such communication with secret agents and 
political spies as Sidonia. He held relations with 
all the clever outcasts of the world. The cata- 
logue of his acquaintance in the shape of Greeks, 
Armenians, Moors, secret Jews, Tartars, Gipsies, 
wandering Poles and Carbonari, would throw a 
curious light on those subterranean agencies of 
which the world in general knows so little, but 
which exercise so great an influence on public 
events. His extensive travels, his knowledge of 
languages, his daring and adventurous disposi- 
tion, and his unlimited means, had given him op- 
portunities of becoming acquainted with these 
characters, in general so difficult to trace, and of 
gaining their devotion. To these sources he 
owed that knowledge of strange and hidden 
things which often startled those who listened to 
him. Nor was it easy, scarcely possible, to de- 
ceive him. Information reached him from so 
many, and such contrary quarters, that with his 
discrimination and experience, he could almost 
instantly distinguish the truth. The secret his- 
tory of the world was his pastime. II is great 
pleasure was to contrast the hidden motive, with 
the public pretext, of transactions. 

One source of interest Sidonia found in his 
descent and in the fortunes of his race. As firm 
in his adherence to the code of the great Legislator 
as if the trumpet still sounded on Sinai, he might 
have received in the conviction of divine favor an 


adequate compensation for human persecution. 
Hut there were other and more terrestrial consid- 
erations that made Sidonia proud of his origin, 
and confident in the future of his kind. Sidonia 
was a great philosopher, who took comprehensive 
views of human affairs, and surveyed every fact in 
its relative position to other facts, the only mode 
of obtaining truth. 

Sidonia was well aware that in the five great 
varieties into which Physiology has divided the 
human species; to wit, the Caucasian, the Mon- 
golian, the Malayan, the American, the Ethio- 
pian ; the Arabian tribes rank in the first and 
superior class, together, among others, with the 
Saxon and the Greek. This fact alone is a source 
of great pride and satisfaction to the animal Man. 
But Sidonia and his brethren could claim a dis- 
tinction which the Saxon and the Greek, and the 
rest of the Caucasian nations have forfeited. The 
Hebrew is an unmixed race. Doubtless, among 
the tribes who inhabit the bosom of the Desert, 
progenitors alike of the Mosaic and the Mohamme- 
dan Arabs, blood may be found as pure as that 
of the descendants of the Scheik Abraham. But 
the Mosaic Arabs are the most ancient, if not the 
only unmixed blood that dwells in cities. 

An unmixed race of a first-rate organisation 
are the aristocracy of Nature. Such excellence is 
a positive fact ; not an imagination, a ceremony, 
coined by poets, blazoned by cozening heralds, 
but perceptible in its physical advantages, and in 
the vigor of its unsullied idiosyncrasy. 

In his comprehensive travels, Sidonia had 
visited and examined the Hebrew communities of 
the world. He had found, in general, the lower 
orders debased ; the superior immersed in sordid 
pursuits ; but he perceived that the intellectual 
development was not impaired. This gave him 
hope. He was persuaded that organisation would 
outlive persecution. When he reflected on what 
they had endured, it was only marvellous that 
the race had not disappeared. They had defied 
exile, massacre, spoliation, the degrading influ- 
ence of the constant pursuit of gain ; they had 
defied Time. For nearly three thousand years, 
according to Archbishop Usher, they have been 
dispersed over the globe. To the unpolluted cur- 
rent of their Caucasian structure, and to the 
segregating genius of their great Lawgiver, Sido- 
nia ascribed the fact that they had not been 
long ago absorbed among those mixed races, who 
presume to persecute them, but who periodically 
wear away and disappear, while their victims still 
flourish in all the primeval vigor of the pure 
Asian breed. 

Shortly after his arrival in England, Sidonia 
repaired to the principal courts of Europe, that 
he might become personally acquainted with the 
monarchs and ministers of whom he had heard so 
much. Hi3 position insured him a distinguished 
reception ; his personal qualities immediately 
made him cherished. He could please ; he could 
do more — he could astonish. He could throw 
out a careless observation which would make the 
oldest diplomatist start; a winged word that 
gained him the consideration, sometimes the con- 
fidence, of Sovereigns. When he had fathomed 
the intelligence which governs Europe, and which 
can only be done by personal acquaintance, ho 
returned to this country. 


CONINGSBY. 


VO 


The somewhat hard and literal character of 
English life suited one who shrank from sensibili- 
ty, and often took refuge in sarcasm. Its mas- 
culine vigor and active intelligence occupied and 
interested his mind. Sidonia, indeed, was exact- 
ly the character who would be welcomed in our 
circles. His immense wealth, his unrivalled so- 
cial knowledge, his clear, vigorous intellect, the 
severe simplicity of his manners, frank, but 
neither claiming nor brooking familiarity, and his 
devotion to field-sports, which was the safety- 
valve of his energy, were all circumstances and 
qualities which the English appreciate and ad- 
mire ; and it may be fairly said of Sidonia that 
few men were more popular, and none less under- 
stood. 


CHAPTER XI. 

At dinner, Coningsby was seated on the same 
side as Sidonia, and distant from him. There had 
been, therefore, no mutual recognition. Another 
guest had also arrived, Mr. Ormsby. He came 
straight from London, full of rumors, had seen 
Tadpole, who, hearing he was on the wing for 
Coningsby Castle, had taken him into a dark cor- 
ner of his club, and shown him his book, a safe 
piece of confidence, as Mr. Ormsby was very 
near-sighted. It was, however, to be received as 
an undoubted fact, that all was right, and some- 
how or other, before very long, there would be 
national demonstration of the same. This arrival 
of Mr. Ormsby, and the news that he bore, gave 
a political turn to the conversation after the ladies 
had left the room. 

“ Tadpole wants me to stand for Birming- 
ham,” said Mr. Ormsby, gravely. 

“You!” exclaimed Lord Monmouth, and, 
throwing himself back in his chair, he broke into 
a real, hearty laugh. 

“Yes; the Conservatives mean to start two 
candidates ; a manufacturer they have got, and 
they have written up to Tadpole for a 1 West-end 
man.’ ” 

“ A what ? ” 

“A West-end man, who will make the ladies 
patronise their fancy articles.” 

“ The result of the Reform Bill, then,” said 
Lucian Gay, “ will be to give Manchester a bish- 
op, and Birmingham a dandy.” 

“ I begin to believe the result will be very 
different from what we expected,” said Lord 
Monmouth. 

Mr. Rigby shook his head and was going to 
prophesy, when Lord Eskdale, who liked talk to 
be short, and was of opinion that Rigby should 
keep his amplifications for his slashing articles, 
put in a brief careless observation, which balked 
his inspiration. 

“ Certainly,” said Mr. Ormsby, “ w r hen the 
guns were firing over Vyvyan’s last speech and 
confession, I never expected to be asked to stand 
for Birmingham.” 

“ Perhaps you may be called up to the other 
House by the title,” said Lucian Gay. “ Who 
knows ? ” 

“ I agree with Tadpole,” said Mr. Ormsby, 
“that if we only stick to the Registration the 
country is saved.” 


“ Fortunate country ! ” said Sidonia, “ that 
can be saved by a good registration ! ” 

“ I believe, after all, that, with property and 
pluck,” said Lord Monmouth, “ Parliamentary 
Reform is not such a very bad thing.” 

Here several gentlemen began talking at the 
same time, all agreeing with their host, and prov- 
ing, in their different ways, the irresistible influ- 
ence of property and pluck ; — property in Lord 
Monmouth’s mind meaning vassals ; and pluck a 
total disregard for public opinion. Mr. Guy 
Flouncey, who wanted to get into Parliament, 
but why nobody knew, who had neither political 
abilities nor political opinions, but had some float- 
ing idea that it would get himself and his wife to 
some more balls and dinners, and who was duly 
ticketed for “a good thing” in the candidate list 
of the Tadpoles and the Tapers, was of opinion 
that an immense deal might be done by properly 
patronising borough races. That was his specific 
how to prevent revolution. 

Taking advantage of a pause, Lord Monmouth 
said, “ I should like to know what you think of 
this question, Sidonia ? ” 

“ I am scarcely a competent judge,” he said, 
as if wishing to disclaim any interference in the 
conversation, and then added, “ but I have been 
ever of opinion that revolutions are not to be 
evaded.” 

“ Exactly my views,” said Mr. Rigby, eagerly ; 
“I say it now, I have said it a thousand times, 
you may doctor the registration as you like, but 
you can never get rid of Schedule A.” 

“ Is there a person in this room who can now 
tell us the names of the boroughs in Schedule 
A ? ” said Sidonia. 

“ I am sure I cannot,” said Lord Monmouth, 
“•though six of them belonged to myself.” 

“ But the principle,” said Mr. Rigby ; “ they 
represented a principle.” 

“Nothing else, certainly,” said Lucian Gay. 

“ And what principle? ” inquired Sidonia. 

“ The principle of nomination.” 

“ That is a practice, not a principle,” said 
Sidonia. “ Is it a practice that no longer exists ? ” 

“ You think, then,” said Lord Eskdale, cutting 
in before Rigby, “ that the Reform Bill has done 
us no harm ? ” 

“ It is not the Reform Bill that has shaken 
the aristocracy of this country, but the means by 
which that Bill was carried,” replied Sidonia. 

“ Physical force ? ” said Lord Eskdale. 

“ Or social power ? ” said Sidonia. 

Upon this, Mr. Rigby, impatient at any one 
giving the tone in a political discussion but him- 
self, and chafing under the vigilance of Lord Esk- 
dale, which to him ever appeared only fortuitous, 
violently assaulted the argument, and astonished 
several country gentlemen present by his volu- 
bility. They at length listened to real eloquence. 
At the end of a long appeal to Sidonia, that gen- 
tleman only bowed his head and said, “Per- 
haps ; ” and then, turning to his neighbor, in- 
quired whether birds were plentiful in Lanca- 
shire this season ; so that Mr. Rigby was reduced 
to the necessity of forming the political opinions 
of Mr. Guy Flouncey. 

As the gentlemen left the dining-room, Con- 
ingsby, though at some distance, was observed by 
Sidonia, who stopped instantly, then advanced to 


REPRESENTATION. 77 


Coningsby, and extending his hand said, “ I said 
we should meet again, though I hardly expected 
so quickly.” 

“ And I hope we shall not separate so soon,” 
said Coniogsby ; “ I was much struck with what 
you said just now about the Reform Bill. Do 
you know that the more I think the more I am 
perplexed by what is meant by Representation ? ” 

“ It is a principle of which a limited definition 
is only current in this country,” said Sidonia, 
quitting the room with him. “ People may be 
represented without periodical elections of neigh- 
bors who are incapable to maintain their interests, 
and strangers who are unwilling.” 

The entrance of the gentlemen produced the 
same effect on the saloon as sunrise on the world ; 
universal animation, a general though gentle stir. 
The Grand-duke, bowing to every one, devoted 
himself to the daughter of Lady St. Julians, who 
herself pinned Lord Beaumanoir before he could 
reach Mrs. Guy Flouncey. Coningsby instead 
talked nonsense to that lady. Brilliant cavaliers, 
including Mr. Melton, addressed a band of beau- 
tiful damsels grouped on a large ottoman. Every- 
where sounded a delicious murmur, broken oc- 
casionally by a silver-sounding laugh not too loud. 
Sidonia and Lord Eskdale did not join the ladies. 
They stood for a few moments in conversation, 
and then threw themselves on a sofa. 

“ Who is that ? ” asked Sidonia of his com- 
panion rather earnestly, as Coningsby quitted 
them. 

“ ’Tis the grandson of Monmouth ; young 
Coningsby.” 

“ Ah ! The new generation then promises. 
I met him once before, by chance ; he interests 
me.” 

“ They tell me he is a lively lad. He is a pro- 
digious favorite here, and I should not be sur- 
prised if Monmouth made him his heir.” 

“ I hope he does not dream of inheritance,” 
said Sidonia. “ ’Tis the most enervating of vis- 
ions.” 

“Do you admire Lady Augustina St. Juli- 
ans ? ” said Mrs. Guy Flouncey to Coningsby. 

“I admire no one except yourself.” 

“ Oh ! how very gallant, Mr. Coningsby ! ” 

“ When should men be gallant, if not to the 
brilliant and the beautiful!” said Coningsby. 

“Ah ! you are laughing at me.” 

“ No, I am not. I am quite grave.” 

“Your eyes laugh. Now tell me, Mr. Con- 
ingsby, Lord Henry Sydney is a very great friend 
of yours ? ” 

“ Very.” 

“ He is very amiable.” 

“ Very.” 

“ He does a great deal for the poor at Beau- 
manoir. A verv fine place, is it not ? ” 

“ Very.” 

“ As fine as Coningsby ? ” 

“ At present ; with Mrs. Guy Flouncey at Con- 
ingsby, Beaumanoir would have no chance.” 

“ Ah ! you laugh at me again ! Now tell me, 
Mr. Coningsby, what do you think we shall do to- 
night ? .1 look upon you, you know, as the real 

arbiter of our destinies.” 

“ You shall decide,” said Coningsby. 

“ Mon cher Harry,” said Madame Colonna, 
coming up, “ they wish Lucretia to sing, and she 


will not. You must ask her, she cannot refuse 
you.” 

“ I assure you she can,” said Coningsby. 

“ Mon cher Harry, your grandpapa did desire 
me to beg you to ask her to sing.” 

So Coningsby unwillingly approached Lucre- 
tia, who was talking with the Russian Ambassa- 
dor. 

“ I am sent upon a fruitless mission,” said 
Coningsby, looking at her, and catching her 
glance. 

“ What, and why ? ” she replied. 

“ The mission is to entreat you to do us all a 
great favor ; and the cause of its failure will be, 
that I am the envoy.” 

“ If the favor be one to yourself, it is granted ; 
and if you be the envoy, you need never fear 
failure with me.” 

“ I must presume then to lead you away,” 
said Coningsby, bending to the Ambassador. 

“ Remember,” said Lucretia, as they ap- 
proached the instrument, “ that I am singing to 
you.” 

“It is impossible ever to forget it,” said Con- 
ingsby, leading her to the piano with great polite- 
ness, but only with great politeness. 

“ Where is Mademoiselle Flora ? ” she in- 
quired. 

Coningsby found La Petite crouching as it 
were behind some furniture, and apparently look- 
ing over some music. She looked up as he ap- 
proached, and a smile stole over her countenance. 
“ I am come to ask a favor,” he said, and he 
named his request. 

“ I will sing,” she replied , “ but only tell me 
what you like.” 

Coningsby felt the difference between the cour- 
tesy of the head and of the heart, as he contrasted 
the manner of Lucretia and Flora. Nothing 
could be more exquisitely gracious than the 
daughter of Colonna was to-night ; Flora, on the 
contrary, was rather agitated and embarrassede ; 
and did not express her readiness w r ith half the 
facility and the grace of Lucretia ; but Flora’s 
arm trembled as Coningsby led her to the piano. 

Meantime Lord Eskdale and Sidonia are iu 
deep converse. 

“ Hah ! that is a fine note ! ” said Sidonia, 
and he looked round. 

“ Who is that singing ? Some new protegee 
of Lord Monmouth ? ” 

“’Tis the daughter of the Colonnas,” said 
Lord Eskdale, “ the Princess Lucretia.” 

“ Why, she was not at dinner to-day.” 

“ No, she was not there.” 

“ My favorite voice ; and of all, the rarest to 
be found. When I was a boy, it made me almost 
in love even with Pisaroni.” 

“ Well, the Princess is scarcely more lovely. 
’Tis a pity the plumage is not as beautiful as the 
note. She is plain.” 

“No; not plain with that brow.” 

“ Well, I rather admire her myself,” said 
Lord Eskdale. “ She has fine points.” 

“ Let us approach,” said Sidonia. 

The song ceased, Lord Eskdale advanced, 
made his compliments, and then said, “You were 
not at dinner to-day.” 

“ Why should I be ? ” said the Princess. 

“ For our sakes, for mine, if not for your 


CONINGSBY. 


*78 

own,” said Lord Eskdale, smiling. “ Your ab- 
sence has been remarked, and felt, I assure you. 
by others as well as myself. There is my friend 
Sidonia so enraptured with your thrilling tones, 
that he has abruptly closed a conversation which 
I have been long counting on. Do you know 
him ? May I present him to you ? ” 

And having obtained a consent, not often con- 
ceded, Lord Eskdale looked round, and, calling 
Sidonia, he presented his friend to the Princess. 

“Yon are fond of music, Lord Eskdale tells 
me ? ” said Lucretia. 

“ When it is excellent,” said Sidonia. 

“ But that is so rare,” said the Princess. 

“ And precious as Paradise,” said Sidonia. 
“ As for indifferent music, ’tis Purgatory ; but, 
when it is bad, for my part I feel myself — ” 

“ Where ? ” said Lord Eskdale. 

“ In the last circle of the Iuferno,” said Si- 
donia. 

Lord Eskdale turned to Flora. 

“ And in what circle do you place us who are 
here? ” the Princess inquired of Sidonia. 

“ One too polished for his verse,” replied her 
companion. 

“You mean too insipid,” said the Princess. 
“ I'wisli that life were a little more Dantesque.” 

“ There is not less treasure in the world,” 
said Sidonia, “ because we use paper currency ; 
and there is not less passion than of old, though 
it is bon-ton to be tranquil.” 

“Do you think so?” said the Princess, in- 
quiringly, and then looking round the apartment. 
“ Have these automata, indeed, souls ? ” 

“ Some of them,” said Sidonia. “ As many as 
would have had souls in the fourteenth century.” 

“ I thought they were wound up every day,” 
said the Princess. 

“ Some are self-impelling,” said Sidonia. 

“ And you can tell at a glance ? ” inquired the 
Princess. “ You are one of those who can read 
human nature ? ” 

“ ’Tis a book open to all.” 

“ But if they cannot read ? ” 

“ Those must be your automata.” 

“ Lord Monmouth tells me you are a great 
traveller ? ” 

“ I have not discovered a new world.” 

“ But you have visited it ? ” 

“ It is getting old.” 

“ I would sooner recall the old than discover 
the new,” said the Princess. 

“ We have both of us cause,” said Sidonia. 
“ Our names are the names of the Past.” 

“ I do not love a world of Utility,” said the 
Princess. 

“ You prefer to be celebrated to being com- 
fortable,” said Sidonia. 

“ It seems to me that the world is withering 
under routine.” 

“ ’Tis the inevitable lot of humanity,” said 
Sidonia. “ Man must ever be the slave of routine ; 
but in old days it was a routine of great thoughts, 
and now it is a routine of little ones.” 

The evening glided on ; the dance succeeded 
the song ; the ladies were fast vanishing ; Con- 
ingsby himself was meditating a movement, when 
Lord Beaumanoir, as he passed him, said, “ Come 
to Lucian Gay’s room; we are going to smoke a 
cigar.” 


This was a favorite haunt, towards midnight, 
of several of the younger members of the party 
at the Castle, who loved to find relaxation from 
the decorous gravities of polished life in the fumes 
of tobacco, the inspiration of whiskey toddy, and 
the infinite amusement of Lucian Gay’s conversa- 
tion and company. This was the genial hour 
when the good story gladdened, the pun flashed, 
and the song sparkled with jolly mirth or saucy 
mimicry. To-night, being Coningsby’s initiation, 
there was a special general meeting of the Grumpy 
Club, in which everybody was to say the gayest 
things with the gravest face, and every laugh car- 
ried a forfeit. Lucian was the inimitable presi- 
dent. He told a tale for which he was famous, 
of “ the very respectable county family who had 
been established in the shire for several genera- 
tions, but Avho (it was a fact) had been ever dis- 
tinguished by the strange and humiliating peculi- 
arity of being born with sheep’s tails.” The re- 
markable circumstances under which Lucian Gay 
had become acquainted with this fact ; the tra- 
ditionary mysteries by which the family in ques- 
tion had succeeded for generations in keeping it 
secret ; the decided measures to which the chief 
of the family had recourse to stop for ever the 
rumor when it first became prevalent ; and finally 
the origin and result of the legend 4 were details 
which Lucian Gay, with the most rueful counte- 
nance, loved to expend upon the attentive and 
expanding intelligence of a new member of the 
Grumpy Club. Familiar as all present were with 
the story whose stimulus of agonising risibility 
they had all in turn experienced, it was with ex- 
treme difficulty that any of them could resist the 
fatal explosion which was to be attended with the 
dreaded penalty. Lord Beaumanoir looked on 
the table with desperate seriousness, an omi- 
nous pucker quivering round his lip ; Mr. Melton 
crammed his handkerchief into his mouth with one 
hand, while he lighted the wrong end of a cigar 
with the other ; one youth hung over the back of 
his chair pinching himself like a faquir, while an- 
other hid his countenance on the table. 

“ It was at the Hunt dinner,” continued Lu- 
cian Gay, in an almost solemn tone, “ that an idea 
for a moment was prevalent, that Sir Mowbray 
Cholmondeley Fetherstoneliaugh, as the head of 
the family, had resolved to terminate for ever 
these mysterious aspersions on his race, that had 
circulated in the county for more than two centu- 
ries ; I mean that the highly respectable family 
of the Cholmondeley Fetherstonehaughs had the 
misfortune to be graced with that appendage to 
which I have referred. His health being drunk, 
Sir Mowbray Cholmondeley Fetherstonehaugh 
rose. He was a little unpopular at the moment, 
from an ugly story about killing foxes, and the 
guests were not as quiet as orators generally de- 
sire, so the Honorable Baronet prayed particular 
attention to a matter personal to himself. In- 
stantly there was a dead silence — ” but here 
Coningsby, who had moved for some time very 
restlessly on his chair, suddenly started up, and, 
struggling for a moment against the inward con- 
vulsion, but in vain, stamped against the floor and 
gave a shout. 

“A song from Mr. Coningsby,” said the presi- 
dent of the Grumpy Club, amid an universal, and 
now permissible roar of laughter. 


THE GRUMPY CLUB. 


79 


Coningsby could not sing ; so be was to favor 
them as a substitute with a speech or a senti- 
ment. But Lucian Gay always let one off these 
penalties easily, and, indeed, was ever ready to 
fulfil them for all. Song, speech, or sentiment, 
he poured them all forth ; nor were pastimes 
more active wanting. He could dance a Taran- 
talla like a Lazzaroni, and execute a Cracovienne 
with all the mincing graces of an Opera heroine. 

His powers of mimicry, indeed, were great 
and versatile. But in nothing was he so happy 
as in a parliamentary debate. And it was re- 
markable that, though himself a man who on 
ordinary occasions was quite incapable without 
infinite perplexity of publicly expressing his sense 
of the merest courtesy of society, he was not only 
a master of the style of every speaker of distinc- 
tion in either House, but he seemed in his imita- 
tive play to appropriate their intellectual as well 
as their physical peculiarities, and presented you 
■with their mind as well as their manner. There 
were several attempts to-night to induce Lucian 
to indulge his guests with a debate, but he seemed 
to avoid the exertion, which was great. As the 
night grew old, however, and every hour he grew 
more lively, he suddenly broke without further 
pressure into the promised diversion ; and Con- 
ingsby listened really with admiration to a dis- 
cussion, of which the only fault was that it was 
more parliamentary than the original — “ plus 
Arabe que l’Arabie.” 

The Duke was never more curt, nor Sir Rob- 
ert more specious ; he was as fiery as Stan- 
ley, and as bitter as Graham. Nor did he do 
their opponents less justice. Lord Palmerston 
himself never treated a profound subject with a 
more pleasant volatility ; and when Lucian rose 
at an early hour of morn, in a full House alike ex- 
hausted and excited, and after having endured for 
hours, in sarcastic silence, the menacing finger of 
Sir Robert, shaking over the green table and ap- 
pealing to his misdeeds in the irrevocable records 
of Hansard, Lord John himself could not have 
afforded a more perfect representative of pluck. 

But, loud as was the laughter, and vehement 
the cheering, with which Lucian’s performances 
were received, all these ebullitions sank into in- 
significance compared with the reception which 
greeted what he himself announced was to be the 
speech of the night. Having quaffed full many a 
quaigh of toddy, he insisted on delivering it on 
the table, a proposition with which his' auditors 
immediately closed. 

The orator appeared, the great man of the 
night, who wa3 to answer everybody on both 
sides. Ah ! that harsh voice, that arrogant style, 
that saucy superficiality which decided on every- 
thing, that insolent ignorance that contradicted 
everybody; it was impossible to mistake them ! 
And Coningsby had the pleasure of seeing repro- 
duced before him the guardian of his youth and 
the patron of the mimic — the Right Honorable 
Nicholas Rigby ! 


CHAPTER XII. 

Madame Colonna, with that vivacious energy 
which characterises the south, had no sooner 
seen Coningsby, and heard his praises celebrated 


by his grandfather, than she resolved that an 
alliance should sooner or later take place between 
him and her step-daughter. She imparted her 
projects without delay to Lucretia, who received 
them in a very different spirit from that in which 
they were communicated. Lucretia bore as lit- 
tle resemblance to her step-mother in character, 
as in person. If she did not possess her beauty, 
she v r as born with an intellect of far greater 
capacity and reach. She had a deep judgment. 
A hasty alliance with a youth, arranged by their 
mutual relatives, might suit very well the clime 
and manners of Italy, but Lucretia was well 
aware that it was altogether opposed to the hab- 
its and feelings of this country. She had no 
conviction that either Coningsby would wish to 
many her, or if willing, that his grandfather 
would sanction such a step in one as yet only on 
the threshold of the world. Lucretia therefore re- 
ceived the suggestions and proposals of Madame 
Colonna with coldness and indifference ; one 
might even say contempt, for she neither felt re- 
spect for this lady, nor was she sedulous to evince 
it. Although really younger than Coningsby, 
Lucretia felt that a woman of eighteen is, in all 
worldly considerations, ten years older than a 
youth of the same age. She anticipated that a 
considerable time might elapse before Coningsby 
would feel it necessary to seal his destiny by 
marriage, while, on the other hand, she was not 
only anxious, but resolved, not to delay on her 
part her emancipation fi-om the galling position 
in which she very frequently found herself. 

Lucretia felt rather than expressed these ideas 
and impressions. She was not naturally com- 
municative, and conversed with no one with less 
frankness and facility than with her step-mother. 
Madame Colonna therefore found no reasons in 
her conversation with Lucretia to change her de- 
termination. As her mind was not very ingeni- 
ous she did not see questions in those various 
lights which make us at the same time infirm of 
purpose and tolerant. What she fancied ought 
to be done, she fancied must be done ; for she 
perceived no middle course or alternative. For 
the rest, Lucretia’s carriage toward her gave her 
little discomfort. Besides, she herself, though 
good-natured, was obstinate. Her feelings were 
not very acute ; nothing much vexed her. As 
long as she had fine dresses, good dinners, and 
opera-boxes, she could bear her plans to be 
crossed like a philosopher ; and her consolation 
under her unaccomplished devices was her ad- 
mirable consistency, which always assured her 
that her projects were wise, though unfulfilled. 

She broke her purpose to Mr. Rigby, that she 
might gain not only his adhesion to her views, 
but his assistance in achieving them. As Madame 
Colonna, in Mr. Rigby’s estimation, exercised 
more influence over Lord Monmouth than any 
other individual, faithful to his policy or practice, 
he agreed with all Madame Colonna’s plans and 
wishes, and volunteered instantly to further 
them. As for the Prince, his wife never consulted 
him on any subject, nor did he wish to be con- 
sulted. On the contrary, he had no opinion about 
anything. All that he required was that he 
should be surrounded by what contributed to his 
personal enjoyment, that he should never be 
troubled, and that he should have billiards. He 


80 


CONINGSBY 


was not inexpert in field-sports, rode indeed very 
well for an Italian, but he never cared to be out- 
of-doors ; and there was only one room in the in- 
terior which passionately interested him. It was 
where the echoing balls denoted the sweeping 
hazard or the effective cannonade. That was the 
chamber where the Prince Colonna literally ex- 
isted. Half-an-hour after breakfast he was in the 
billiard-room ; he never quitted it until he dressed 
for dinner; and he generally contrived, while the 
world were amused or amusing themselves at the 
comedy or in the dance, to steal down with some 
congenial sprites to the magical and illumined 
chamber, and use his cue until bedtime. 

Faithful to her first impressions, Lucretia had 
made no difference in her demeanor to Coningsby 
to that which she offered to the other guests. 
Polite, but uucommunicative ; ready to answer, 
but never originating conversation ; she charmed 
him as little by her manner as by her person ; 
and after some attempts, not very painstaking, to 
interest her, Coningsby had ceased to address her. 
The day passed by with only a faint recognition 
between them ; even that sometimes omitted. 

When, however, Lucretia observed that Con- 
ingsby had become one of the most notable per- 
sons in the Castle; when she heard everywhere 
of his talents and accomplishments, his beauty 
and grace and great acquirements, and perceived 
that he was courted by all ; that Lord Monmouth 
omitted no occasion publicly to evince towards 
him his regard and consideration ; that he seemed 
generally looked upon in the light of his grand- 
father’s heir; and that Lady Saint Julians, more 
learned in that respect than any lady in the king- 
dom, was heard more than once to regret that she 
had not brought another daughter with her — 
Clara Isabella, as well as Augustina ; the Princess 
Lucretia began to imagine that Madame Colonna, 
after all, might not be so extravagant in her pur- 
pose as she had at first supposed. She, there- 
fore, surprised Coningsby with the almost affec- 
tionate moroseness with which, while she hated 
to sing, she yet found pleasure in singing for him 
alone. And it is impossible to say what might 
not have been the next move in her tactics in this 
respect, had not the very night on which she had 
resolved to commence the enchantment of Con- 
ingsby introduced to her Sidonia. 

The Princess Lucretia encountered the dark 
still glance of the friend of Lord Eskdale. lie, 
too, beheld a woman unlike other women, and 
with his fine experience, both as a man and as a 
physiologist, felt that he was in the presence of 
no ordinary organisation. From the evening of 
his introduction Sidonia sought the society of the 
Princess Lucretia. lie could not complain of her 
reserve. She threw out her mind in various and 
highly-cultivated intelligence. He recognised in 
her a deep and subtle spirit, considerable reading 
for a woman, habits of thought, and a soul pas- 
sionate and daring. She resolved to subdue one 
whose appreciation she had gained, and who had 
subdued her. The profound meaning and the 
calm manner of Sidonia combined to quell her 
spirit. She struggled against the spell. She 
tried to rival his power ; to cope with him, and 
with the same weapons. But prompt as was her 
thought and bright as was its expression, her 
heart beat in tumult ; and, with all her apparent 


serenity, her agitated soul was a prey of absorb- 
ing- passion. She could not contend with that 
intelligent, yet inscrutable, eye ; with that man- 
ner so full of interest and respect, and yet so 
tranquil. Besides, they were not on equal terms. 
Here was a girl contending with a man learned in 
the world’s way. 

Between Sidonia and Coningsby there at once 
occurred companionship. The morning after his 
arrival they went out shooting together. After 
a long ramble they would stretch themselves on 
the turf under a shady tree, often by the side of 
some brook where the cresses grow, that added 
a luxury to their sporting meal ; and then Con- 
ingsby would lead their conversation to some sub- 
ject on which Sidonia would pour out his mind 
with all that depth of reflection, variety of knowl- 
edge, and richness of illustrative memory, which 
distinguished him ; and which offered so striking 
a contrast to the sharp talent, the shallow infor- 
mation, and the worldly cunning, that make a 
Rigby. 

This fellowship between Sidonia and Conings- 
by elevated the latter still more in the estimation 
of Lucretia, and rendered her still more desirous 
of gaining his good will and opinion. A great 
friendship seemed to have arisen between them, 
and the world began to believe that there must be 
some foundation for Madame Colonna’s innuen- 
dos. That lady herself was not in the least 
alarmed by the attention which Sidonia paid her 
step-daughter. It was, of course, well known 
that Sidonia was not a marrying man. He was, 
however, a great friend of Mr. Coningsby, his 
presence and society brought Coningsby and Lu- 
cretia more together ; and however flattered her 
daughter might be for the moment by Sidonia’s 
homage, still, as she would ultimately find out, 
if indeed she ever cared so to do, that Sidonia 
could only be her admirer, Madame Colonna had 
no kind of doubt that ultimately Coningsby 
would be Lucretia’s husband, as she had arranged 
from the first. 

The Princess Lucretia was a fine horse-woman, 
though she rarely joined the various riding-parties 
that were daily formed at the Castle. Often, in- 
deed, attended only by her groom, she met the 
equestrians. Now she would ride with Sidonia 
and Coningsby, aud as a female companion was 
indispensable, she insisted upon La Petite accom- 
panying her. This was a fearful trial for Flora, 
but she encountered it, encouraged by the kind 
solicitude of Coningsby, who always seemed her 
friend. 

Very shortly after the arrival of Sidonia, the 
Grand-duke and his suite quitted the Castle, 
which had been his Highness’s head-quarters dur- 
ing his visit to the manufacturing districts ; but 
no other great change in the assembled company 
occurred for some little time. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

“ You will observe one curious trait,” said 
Sidonia to Coningsby, “ in the history of this 
country — the depository of power is always un- 
popular ; all combine against it ; it alwavs falls. 
Power was deposited in the great Barons ; the 


NATIONAL CHARACTER. 


81 


Church, using the King for its instrument, crushed 
the great Barons. Power was deposited in the 
Church ; the King bribing the Parliament, plun- 
dered the Church. Power was deposited in the 
King ; the Parliament, using the People, behead- 
ed the King, expelled the King, changed the 
King, and, finally, for a King substituted an ad- 
ministrative officer. For one hundred and fifty 
years Power has been deposited in the Parlia- 
ment, and for the last sixty or seventy years it 
has been becoming more and more unpopular. 
In 1830 it was endeavored by a reconstruction to 
regain the popular affection ; but, in truth, as 
the Parliament then only made itself more power- 
ful, it has only become more odious. As we see 
that the Barons, the Church, the King, have in 
turn devoured each other, and that the Parlia- 
ment, the last devourer, remains, it is impossible 
to resist the impression that this body also is 
doomed to be destroyed ; and he is a sagacious 
statesman who may detect in what form and in 
what quarter the great consumer will arise.” 

“You take, then, a dark view of our posi- 
tion ? ” 

“ Troubled, not dark. I do not ascribe to 
political institutions that paramount influence 
which it is the feeling of this age to attribute to 
them. The Senate that confronted Brennus in 
the Forum, was the same body that registered in 
an after-age the ribald decrees of a Nero. Trial 
by jury, for example, is looked upon by all as the 
Palladium of our liberties ; yet a jury at a very 
recent period of our own history, the reign of 
Charles II., was a tribunal as iniquitous as the 
Inquisition.” And a graver expression stole over 
the countenance of Sidonia as he remembered 
what that Inquisition had operated on his own 
race and his own destiny. “ There are families 
in this country,” he continued, “ of both the 
great historical parties, that in the persecution of 
their houses, the murder and proscription of 
some of their most illustrious members, found 
judges as unjust and relentless in an open jury 
of their countrymen as we did in the conclaves of 
Madrid and Seville.” 

“ Where, then, would you look for hope ? ” 

“ In what is more powerful than laws and in- 
stitutions, and without which the best laws and 
the most skilful institutions may be a dead letter, 
or the very means of tyranny in the national char- 
acter. It is not in the increased feebleness of 
its institutions that I see the peril of Eugland ; it 
is in the decline of its character as a community.” 

“ And yet you could scarcely describe this as 
an age of corruption ? ” 

“ Not of political corruption. But it is an age 
of social disorganisation, far more dangerous in 
its consequences, because far more extensive. 
You may have a corrupt government and a pure 
community ; you may have a corrupt community 
and a pure administration. Which would you 
elect ? ” 

“Neither,” said Coningsby ; “ I wish to see 
a people full of faith, and a government full of 
duty.” 

“Rely upon it,” said Sidonia, “ that England 
should think more of the community and less of 
the government.” 

“But tell me, what do you understand by the 
term national character ? ” 

G 


“ A character is an assemblage of qualities ; 
the character of England should be an assemblage 
of great qualities.” 

“ But we cannot deny that the English have 
great virtues.” 

“ The civilisation of a thousand years must 
produce great virtues : but we are speaking of 
the decline of public virtue, not its existence.” 

“ In w'hat, then, do you trace that decline ? ” 

“ In the fact that the various classes of this 
country are arrayed against each other.” 

“ But to what do you attribute those recipro- 
cal hostilities ? ” 

“Not entirely, not even principally, to those 
economical causes of wdiich we hear so much. I 
look upon all such as secondary causes, which, 
in a certain degree, must always exist, w'hich ob- 
trude themselves in troubled times, and which at 
all times it is the business of wise statesmen to 
watch, to regulate, to ameliorate, to modify.” 

“ I am speaking to elicit truth, not to main- 
tain opinions,” said Coningsby ; “ for I have none,” 
he added mournfully. 

“ I think,” said Sidonia, “ that there is no qrror 
so vulgar as to believe that revolutions are oc- 
casioned by economical causes. They come in, 
doubtless, very often to precipitate a catastrophe ; 
very rarely do they occasion one. I know no 
period, for example, when physical comfort was 
more diffused in England that in 1640. England 
had a moderate population, a very improved agri- 
culture, a rich commerce ; yet she w r as on the 
eve of the greatest and most violent changes that 
she has as yet experienced.” 

“That was a religious movement.” 

“ Admit it ; the cause, then, was not physical. 
The imagination of England rose against the gov- 
ernment. It proves, then, that when that faculty 
is astir in a nation, it will sacrifice even physical 
comfort to follow its impulses.” 

“ Do you think, then, there is a wild desire for 
extensive political change in the country ? ” 

“ Hardly that : England is perplexed at the 
present moment, not inventive. That will be the 
next phasis in her moral state, and to that I wish 
to draw your thoughts. For myself, w'hile I 
ascribe little influence to physical causes for the 
production of this perplexity, I am still less of 
opinion that it can be removed by any new dispo- 
sition of political power. It w'ould only aggravate 
the evil. That would be recurring to the old 
error of supposing you can necessarily find na- 
tional content in political institutions. A politi- 
cal institution is a machine ; the motive power is 
the national character. With that it rests whether 
the machine will benefit society, or destroy it. So- 
ciety in this country is perplexed, almost para- 
lysed ; in time it will move, and it will devise. 
How are the elements of the nation to be again 
blended together? In what spirit is that reor- 
ganisation to take place ? ” 

“ To know that would be to know everything.” 

“At least let us free ourselvfes from the 
double ignorance of the Platonists. Let us not 
be ignorant that we are ignorant.” 

“ I have emancipated myself from that dark- 
ness for a long time,” said Coningsby. “ Long 
has mv mind been musing over these thoughts* 
but to me all is still obscurity.” 

“ In this country,” said Sidonia, “ since the 


82 


CONINGSBY. 


peace, there has been an attempt to advocate a 
reconstruction of society on a purely rational 
basis. The principle of Utility has been power- 
fully developed. I speak not with lightness of 
the labors of the disciples of that school. I bow 
to intellect in every form : and we should be 
grateful to any school of philosophers, even if we 
disagree with them ; doubly grateful in this coun- 
try, where for so long a period our statesmen 
were in so pitiable an arrear of public intelligence. 
There has been an attempt to reconstruct society 
on a basis of material motives and calculations. 
It has failed. It must ultimately have failed 
under any circumstances ; its failure in an an- 
cient and densely-peopled kingdom was inevita- 
ble. How limited is human reason, the pro- 
foundest inquirers are most conscious. We are 
not indebted to the Reason of man for any of 
the great achievements which are the landmarks 
of human action and human progress. It was 
not reason that besieged Troy ; it was not Reason 
that sent forth the Saracen from the Desert to 
conquer the world ; that inspired the Crusades ; 
that instituted the Monastic orders ; it was not 
Reason that produced the Jesuits ; above all, it 
was not Reason that created the French Revolu- 
tion. Man is only truly great when he acts from 
the passions ; never irresistible but when he ap- 
peals to the Imagination. Even Mormon counts 
more votaries than Bentham.” 

“ And you think, then, that as Imagination 
once subdued the State, Imagination may now 
save it ? ” 

“ Man is made to adore and to obey : but if 
you will not command him, if you give him 
nothing to worship, he will fashion his own divin- 
ities, and find a chieftain in his own passions.” 

“ But where can we find faith in a nation of 
sectaries ? Who can feel loyalty to a sovereign 
of Downing Street ? ” 

“ I speak of the eternal principles of human 
nature, you answer me with the passing accidents 
of the hour. Sects rise and sects disappear. 
Where are the Fifth-Monarchy men ? England 
is governed by Downing Street ; once it was 
governed by Alfred and Elizabeth.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

About this time a steeple-chase in the West 
of England had attracted considerable attention. 
This sport was then of recent introduction in 
England, and is, in fact, an importation of Irish 
growth, although it has flourished in our soil. A 
young guardsman, who was then a guest at the 
Castle, and who had been in garrison in Ireland, 
had some experience of this pastime in the Kil- 
dare country, and he proposed that they should 
have a steeple-chase at Coningsby. This was a 
suggestion very agreeable to the Marquess of 
Beaumanoir, celebrated for his feats of horse- 
manship, and, indeed, to most of the guests. It 
was agreed that the race should come off at 
once, before any of the present company, many 
of whom gave symptoms of being on the wing, 
had quitted the Castle. The young guardsman 
and Mr. Guy Flouncey had surveyed the country, 
and had selected a line which they esteemed very 


appropriate for the scene of action. From a hill 
of common land you looked down upon the valley 
of Coningsby, richly cultivated, deeply ditched, 
and stiffly fenced ; the valley was bounded by 
another rising ground, and the scene was admira- 
bly calculated to give an extensive view to a mul- 
titude. 

The distance along the valley was to be two 
miles out, and home again ; the starting-post be- 
ing also the winning-post, and the flags, which 
were placed on every fence which the horses 
were to pass, were to be passed on the left-hand 
of the rider both going and coming ; so that al- 
though the horses had to leap the same fences 
forward and backward, they could not come over 
the same place twice. In the last field before 
they turned, was a brook seventeen feet clear 
from side to side, with good taking off on both 
banks. Here real business commenced. 

Lord Monmouth highly approved the scheme, 
but mentioned that the stakes must be moderate, 
and open to the whole county. The neighborhood 
had a week of preparation, and the entries for 
the Coningsby steeple-chase were numerous. Lord 
Monmouth, after a reserve for his own account, 
placed his stable at the service of his guests. 
For himself, he offered to back his horse, Sir 
Robert, which was to be ridden by his grandson. 

Now, nothing was spoken or thought of at 
Coningsby Castle except the coming sport. The 
ladiels shared the general excitement. They em- 
broidered handkerchiefs, and scarfs, and gloves, 
with the respective colors of the rivals, and tried 
to make jockey-caps. Lady St. Julians postponed 
her intended departure in consequence. Ma- 
dame Colonna wished that some means could be 
contrived by which they might all win. 

Sidonia, with the other competitors, had rid- 
den over the ground and glanced at the brook 
with the eye of a workman. On his return to the 
Castle he sent a despatch for some of his stud. 

Coningsby was all anxiety to win. He was 
proud of the confidence of his grandfather in 
backing him. He had a powerful horse and a first- 
rate fencer, and he was resolved himself not to 
flinch. On the night before the race, retiring 
somewhat earlier than usual to his chamber, he 
observed on his dressing-table a small packet ad- 
dressed to his name, and in an unknown hand- 
writing. Opening it, he found a very pretty ra- 
cing-jacket embroidered with his colors of pink 
and white. This was a perplexing circumstance, 
but he fancied it on the whole a happy omen. And 
who was the donor? Certainly not the Princess 
Lucretia, for he had observed her fashioning some 
maroon ribbons, which were the colors of Sidonia. 
It could scarcely be from Mrs. Guy Flouncey. 
Perhaps Madame Colonna to please — the Mar- 
quess? Thinking over this incident, he fell 
asleep. 

The morning before the race Sidonia’s horses 
arrived. All went to examine them at the sta- 
bles. Among them was an Arab mare. Conings- 
by recognised the Daughter of the Star. She 
was greatly admired for her points ; but Guy 
Flouncey whispered to Mr. Melton that she never 
could do the work. 

“ But Lord Beaumanoir says he is all for 
speed against strength in these affairs,” said Mr. 
Melton. 


THE STEEPLE-CHASE. 


83 


Guy Flouncey smiled incredulously. 

The night before the race it rained rather 
heavily. 

“ I take it the country will not be very like 
the deserts of Arabia,” said Mr. Guy Flouncey, 
with a knowing look to Mr. Melton, who was no- 
ting a bet in his memorandum-book. 

The morning was very fine, clear, and sunny, 
■with a soft western breeze. The starting-post 
was about three miles from the Castle; but, 
long before the hour the surrounding hills were 
covered with people; squire and farmer; with 
no lack of their wives and daughters ; many a 
hind in his smock-frock, and many an “ opera- 
tive ” from the neighboring factories. The “ gen- 
tlemen riders” gradually arrived. The entries 
were very numerous, though it w r as understood 
that not more than a dozen would come to the 
post, and half of these were the guests of Lord 
Monmouth. At half-past one the cortege from 
the Castle arrived, and took up the post which 
had been prepared for them on the summit of 
the hill. Lord Monmouth was much cheered on 
his arrival. In the carriage with him were Ma- 
dame Colonna and Lady St. Julians. The Prin- 
cess Lucretia, Lady Gaythorpe, Mrs. Guy Floun- 
cey, accompanied by Lord Eskdale and other 
cavaliers, formed a brilliant company. There 
was scarcely a domestic in the Castle who was 
not there. The comedians, indeed, did not care 
to come, but ViUpbecque prevailed upon Flora to 
drive with him To the race in a buggy he bor- 
rowed of the steward. 

The start was to be at two o’clock. The 
“ gentlemen jockeys ” are mustered. Never were 
riders mounted and appointed in better style. 
The stewards and the clerk of the course attend 
them to the starting-post. There they are now 
assembled. Guy Flouncey takes up his stirrup- 
leathers a hole; Mr. Melton looks at his girths. 
In a few moments, the irrevocable monosyllable 
will be uttered. 

The bugle sounds for them to face about; the 
clerk of the course sings out, “ Gentlemen, are 
you all ready?” No objection made, the word 
given to go, and fifteen riders start in excellent 
style. 

Prince Colonna, who rode like Prince Rupert, 
took the lead, followed close by a stout yeoman 
on an old white horse of great provincial celebri- 
ty, who made steady running, and, from his ap- 
pearance and action, an awkward customer. The 
rest, with two exceptions, followed in a cluster 
at no great distance, and in this order they con- 
tinued, with very slight variation, for the first 
two miles, though there w r ere several ox-fences 
and one or two of them remarkably stiff. In- 
deed, they appeared more like horses running 
over a course than over a country. The two ex- 
ceptions were Lord Beaumanoir on his horse 
Sunbeam, and Sidonia on the Arab. These kept 
somewhat slightly in the rear. 

Almost in this wise they approached the 
dreaded brook. Indeed, with the exception of 
the last two riders, who were about thirty yards 
behind, it seemed that you might have covered 
the rest of the field with a sheet. They arrived 
at the brook at the same moment : seventeen feet 
of water between strong sound banks is no holi- 
day work ; but they charged with unfaltering in- 


trepidity. But what a revolution in their spirited 
order did that instant produce ! A masked bat- 
tery of canister and grape could not have achieved 
more terrible execution. Coningsby alone clearly 
lighted on the opposing bank ; but, for the rest 
of them, it seemed for a moment that they were 
all in the middle of the brook, one over another, 
splashing, kicking, swearing: every one trying to 
get out and keep others in. Mr. Melton and the 
stout yeoman regained their saddles and were 
soon again in chase. The Prince lost his horse, 
and was not alone in his misfortune. Mr. Guy 
Flouncey lay on bis back with a horse across his 
diaphragm ; only his head above the water, and 
his mouth full of chickweed and docldeaves. 
And if help had not been at hand, he and several 
others might have remained struggling in their 
watery bed for a considerable period. In the 
midst of this turmoil, the Marquess and Sidonia 
at the same moment cleared the brook. 

Affairs now became very interesting. Here 
Coningsby took up the running, Sidonia and the 
Marquess lying close at his quarters. Mr. Melton 
had gone the wrong side of a flag, and the stout 
yeoman, though close at hand, was already trust- 
ing much to his spurs. In the extreme distance 
might be detected three or four stragglers. Thus 
they continued until within three fields of home. 
A ploughed fielji finished the old white horse ; 
the yeoman struck his spurs to the rowels, but 
the only effect of the experiment was, that the 
horse stood stock-still. Coningsby, Sidonia, and 
the Marquess, were now all together. The win- 
ning-post is in sight, and a high and strong gate 
leads to the last field. Coningsby, looking like a 
winner, gallantly dashed forward and sent Sii 
Robert at the gate, but he had over-estimated 
his horse’s powers at this point of the game, and 
a rattling fall was the consequence : however, 
horse and rider were both on the right side, and 
Coningsby was in his saddle and at work again in 
a moment. It seemed that the Marquess was 
winning. There was only one more fence ; and 
that the foot-people had made a breach in by the 
side of a gate-post, and wide enough, as w r as 
said, for a broad-wheel waggon to travel by. In- 
stead of passing straight over this gap, Sunbeam 
swerved against the gate and threw his rider. 
This was decisive. The Daughter of the Star, 
who w'as still going beautifully, pulling double, 
and her jockey sitting still, sprang over the gup 
and went in first; Coningsby, on Sir Robert, 
being placed second. The distance measured 
was about four miles; there were thirty-nine 
leaps, and it was done under fifteen minutes. 

Lord Monmouth was well content with the 
prowess of his grandson, and his extreme cordi- 
ality consoled Coningsby under a defeat which 
w r as very vexatious. It was some alleviation 
that he was beaten by Sidonia. Madame Colonna 
even shed tears at her young friend’s disappoint- 
ment, and mourned it especially for Lucretia, 
who had said nothing, though a flush might be 
observed on her usually pale countenance. Vil- 
lebecque, who had betted, was so extremely ex- 
cited by the whole affair, especially during the 
last three minutes, that he quite forgot his quiet 
companion, and when he looked round he found 
Flora fainting. 

“ You rode well,” said Sidonia to Coningsby; 


84 


CONINGSBY. 


“ but your horse was more strong than swift. 
After all, this thing is a race ; and, notwithstand- 
ing Solomon, in a race speed must win.” 


CHAPTER XY. 

Notwithstanding the fatigues of the morn- 
ing, the evening was passed with great gaiety at 
the Castle. The gentlemen all vowed that, far 
from being inconvenienced by their mishaps, they 
felt, on the whole, rather better for them. Mr. 
Guy Flouncey, indeed, did not seem quite so lim- 
ber and flexible as usual ; and the young guards- 
man, who had previously discoursed in an almost 
alarming style of the perils and feats of the Kil- 
dare country, had subsided into a remarkable 
reserve. The Provincials were delighted with Si- 
donia’s riding, and even the Leicestershire gentle- 
men almost admitted that he was a “ customer.” 

Lord Monmouth beckoned to Coningsby to 
sit by him on the sofa, and spoke of his approach- 
ing University life. He gave his grandson a great 
deal of good advice : told him to avoid drinking, 
especially if he ever chanced to play cards, which 
he hoped he never would ; urged the expediency 
of never borrowing money, and of confining his 
loans to small sums, and then only to friends of 
Avhom he wished to get rid ; most particularly 
impressed on him never to permit his feelings to 
be engaged by any woman ; nobody, he assured 
Coningsby, despised that weakness more than 
women themselves. Indeed, feeling of any kind 
did not suit the present age — it was not bon ton ; 
and in some degree always made a man ridicu- 
lous. Coningsby was always to have before him 
the possible catastrophe of becoming ridiculous. 
It was the test of conduct, Lord Monmouth said ; 
a fear of becoming ridiculous is the best guide in 
life, and will save a man from all sorts of scrapes. 
For the rest, Coningsby was to appear at Cam- 
bridge as became Lord Monmouth’s favorite 
grandson. His grandfather had opened an ac- 
count for him with Drummonds’, on whom he 
was to draw for his considerable allowance ; and 
if by any chance he found himself in a scrape, no 
matter of what kind, he was to be sure to write 
to his grandfather, who would certainly get him 
out of it. 

“ Your departure is sudden,” said the Princess 
Lucretia, in a low deep tone to Sidonia, who was 
sitting by her side and screened from general ob- 
servation by the waltzers who whirled by. 

“ Departures should be sudden.” 

“ I do not like departures,” said the Princess. 

“ Nor did the Queen of Sheba when she quit- 
ted Solomon. You know what she did ? ” 

“ Tell me.” 

“ She wept very much, and let one of the 
King’s birds fly into the garden. ‘ You are freed 
from your cage,’ she said ; ‘ but I am going back 
to mine.’ ” 

“ But you never weep ? ” said the Princess. 

“ Never.” 

“ And are always free ? ” 

“ So are men in the Desert.” 

“ But your life is not a Desert ? ” 

“ It at least resembles the Desert in one re- 
spect — it is useless.” 


“The only useless life is woman’s.” 

“ Yet there have been heroines,” said Sidonia. 

“ The Queen of Sheba,” said the Princess, 
smiling. 

“ A favorite of mine,” said Sidonia. 

“ And why was she a favorite of yours ? ” 
rather eagerly inquired Lucretia. 

“Because she thought deeply, talked finely, 
and moved gracefully.” 

“ And yet might be a very unfeeling dame at 
the same time,” said the Princess. 

“ I never thought of that,” said Sidonia. 

“ The heart, apparently, does not reckon in 
your philosophy.” 

“ What we call the heart,” said Sidonia, “ is a 
nervous sensation, like shyness, which gradually 
disappears in society. It is fervent in the nur- 
sery, strong in the domestic circle, tumultuous at 
school. The affections are the children of igno- 
rance; when the horizon of our experience ex- 
pands, and models multiply, love and admiration 
imperceptibly vanish.” 

“ I fear the horizon of your experience has very 
greatly expanded. With your opinions, what 
charm can there be in life ? ” 

“ The sense of existence.” 

“ So Sidonia is off to-morrow, Monmouth,” 
said Lord Eskdale. 

“ Hah ! ” said the Marquess. “ I must get 
him to breakfast with me before he goes.” 

The party broke up. Coningsby, who had 
heard Lord Eskdale announce SidOnia’s departure, 
lingered to express his regret, and say farewell. 

“ I cannot sleep,” said Sidonia, “ and I never 
smoke in Europe. If you are not stiff with your 
wounds, come to my rooms.” 

This invitation was willingly accepted. 

“ I am going to Cambridge in a week,” said 
Coningsby. “ I was almost in hopes you might 
have remained as long.” 

“ I, also ; but my letters of this morning de- 
mand me. If it had not been for our chase, I 
should have quitted immediately. The minister 
cannot pay the interest on the national debt — not 
an unprecedented circumstance, and has applied 
to us: I never permit any business of state to be 
transacted without my personal interposition ; and 
so I must go up to town immediately.” 

“ Suppose you don’t pay it,” said Coningsby, 
smiling. 

“ If I followed my own impulse, I would re- 
main here,” said Sidonia. “Can anything be 
more absurd than that a nation should apply to 
an individual to maintain its credit, and with its 
credit, its existence as an empire, and its comfort 
as a people ; and that individual one to whom its 
laws deny the proudest rights of citizenship, the 
privilege of sitting in its senate and of holding 
land ? for though I have been rash enough to buy 
several estates, my own opinion is, that by the 
existing law of England, an Englishman of Hebrew 
faith cannot possess the soil.” 

“ But surely it would be easy to repeal a law 
so illiberal — ” 

/‘Oh! as for illiberality, I have no objection 
to it if it be an element of power. Eschew polit- 
ical sentimentalism. What I contend is, that if 
you permit men to accumulate property, and thev 
use that permission to a great extent, power is 
inseparable from that property, and it is in the 


HEBREW INTELLECT AND INFLUENCE. 


85 


last degree impolitic to make it the interest of any 
powerful class to oppose the institutions under 
which they live. The Jews, for example, inde- 
pendently of the capital qualities for citizenship 
which they possess in their industry, temperance, 
and energy and vivacity of mind, are a race essen- 
tially monarchical, deeply religious, and shrinking 
themselves from converts as from a calamity, are 
ever anxious to see the religious systems of the 
countries in which they live, flourish ; yet, since 
your society has become agitated in England, and 
powerful combinations menace your institutions, 
you find the once loyal Hebrew invariably arrayed 
in the same ranks as the leveller and the latitu- 
dinarian, and prepared to support the policy which 
may even endanger his life and property, rather 
than tamely continue under a system which seeks 
to degrade him. The Tories lose an important 
election at a critical moment; ’tis the Jews come 
forward to vote against them. The Church is 
alarmed at the scheme of a latitudinarian uni- 
versity, and learns with relief that funds are not 
forthcoming for its establishment; a Jew imme- 
diately advances and endows it. Yet the Jews, 
Coningsby, are essentially Tories. Toryism, in- 
deed, is but copied from the mighty prototype 
which has fashioned Europe. And every genera- 
tion they must become more powerful and more 
dangerous to the society which is hostile to them. 
Do you think that the quiet humdrum persecu- 
tion of a decorous representative of an English 
university can crush those who have successively 
baffled the Pharaohs, Nebuchadnezzar, Rome, and 
the Feudal ages ? The fact is, you cannot destroy 
a pure race of the Caucasian organisation. It is 
a physiological fact; a simple law of Nature, 
which has baffled Egyptian and Assyrian Kings, 
Roman Emperors, and Christian Inquisitors. No 
penal law's, no physical tortures, can effect that a 
superior race should be absorbed in an inferior, 
or be destroyed by it. The mixed persecuting 
races disappear; the pure persecuted race re- 
mains. And at this moment, in spite of centuries, 
of tens of centuries, of degradation, the Jewdsh 
mind exercises a vast influence on the affairs of 
Europe. I speak not of their laws, which you 
still obey : of their literature, with which your 
minds are saturated ; but of the living Hebrew 
intellect. 

“You never observe a great intellectual 
movement in Europe in which the Jews do not 
greatly participate. The first Jesuits were Jews : 
that mysterious Russian Diplomacy which so 
alarms Western Europe is organised and prin- 
cipally carried on by Jew's ; that mighty revolu- 
tion which is at this moment preparing in Ger- 
many, and which will be, in fact, a second and 
greater Reformation, and of which so little is as 
yet known in England, is entirely developing un- 
der the auspices of Jew's, who almost monopolise 
the professorial chairs of Germany. Neander, 
the founder of Spiritual Christianity, and who is 
Regius Professor of Divinity in the University of 
Berlin, is a Jew. Benary, equally famous, and 
in the same University, is a Jew. Wehl, the 
Arabic Professor of Heidelberg, is a Jew. Years 
ago, w'hen I was in Palestine, I met a German 
student who was accumulating materials for the 
History of Christianity, and studying the genius 
of the place ; a modest and learned man. It was 


Webl; then unknown, since become the first 
Arabic scholar of the day, and the author of the 
life of Mahomet. But for the German professors 
of this race, their name is Legion. I think there 
are more than ten at Berlin alone. 

“ I told you just now that I was going up 
town to-morrow, because I always made it a rule 
to interpose when affairs of State were on the 
carpet. Otherwise, I never interfere. I hear of 
peace and war in newspapers, but I am never 
alarmed, except when I am informed that the 
Sovereigns want treasure; then I know that 
monarchs are serious. 

“ A few years back we were applied to by Rus- 
sia. Now, there has been no friendship between 
the Court of St. Petersburg and my family. It 
has Dutch connections, which have generally sup- 
plied it; and our representations in favor of the 
Polish Hebrews, a numerous race, but the most 
suffering and degraded of all the tribes, have not 
been very agreeable to the Czar. However, cir- 
cumstances drew to an approximation between the 
Romanoffs and the Sidonias. I resolved to go 
myself to St. Petersburg. I had, on my arrival, 
an interview with the Russian Minister of Finance, 
Count Cancrin. I beheld the son of a Lithuanian 
Jew. The loan was connected with the affairs of 
Spain ; I resolved on repairing to Spain from 
Russia. I travelled without intermission. I had 
an audience immediately on my arrival with the 
Spanish Minister, Senor Mendizabel ; I beheld one 
like myself, the son of a Nuevo Christiano, a Jew 
of Arragon. In consequence of what transpired 
at Madrid, I went straight to Paris to consult the 
President of the French Council; I beheld the 
son of a French Jew, a hero, an imperial marshal, 
and very properly so, for who should be military 
heroes if not those who worship the Lord of 
Hosts ? ” 

“ And is Soult a Hebrew ? ” 

“ Yes, and others of the French marshals, and 
the most famous ; Massena, for example ; his real 
name was Manasseh ; but to my anecdote. The 
consequence of our consultations was, that some 
Northern power should be applied to in a friendly 
and mediative capacity. We fixed on Prussia; 
and the President of the Council made an appli- 
cation to the Prussian Minister, who attended a 
few days after our conference. Count Arnim en- 
tered the cabinet, and I beheld a Prussian Jew v 
So you see, my dear Coningsby, that the world is*"! 
governed by very different personages from what 
is imagined by those who are not behind the 
scenes.” 

“You startle, and deeply interest me.” 

“You must study physiology, my dear child. 
Pure races of Caucasus may be persecuted, but 
they cannot be despised, except by the brutal ig- 
norance of some mongrel breed, that brandishes 
fagots and howls extermination, but is itself ex- 
terminated, without persecution, by that irresist- 
ible law of Nature which is fatal to ours.” 

“But I come also from Caucasus,” saicfl 
Coningsby. 

“ Verily; and thank your Creator for such a 
destiny : and your race is sufficiently pure. You 
come from the shores of the Northern Sea, land 
of the blue eye, and the golden hair, and the 
frank brow : ’tis a famous breed, with whom we 
Arabs have contended long ; from whom we have 


86 


CONIXGSBY. 


suffered much : but these Goths, and Saxons, and 
Normans, were doubtless great men.” 

“ But so favored by Nature, why has not your 
race produced great poets, great orators, great 
writers ? ” 

“Favored by Nature and by Nature’s God, we 
produced the lyre of David ; we gave you Isaiah 
and Ezekiel ; they are our Olynthians, our Phi- 
lippics. Favored by Nature we still remain : but 
in exact proportion as we have been favored by 
Nature we have been persecuted by Man. After 
a thousand struggles ; after acts of heroic cour- 
age that Rome has never equalled ; deeds of di- 
vine patriotism that Athens, and Sparta, and 
Carthage have never excelled ; we have endured 
fifteen hundred years of supernatural slavery, 
during which, every device that can degrade or 
destroy man has been the destiny that we have 
sustained and baffled. The Hebrew child has en- 
tered adolescence only to learn that he was the 
Pariah of that ungrateful Europe that owes to 
him the best part of its laws, a fine portion of its 
literature, all its religion. Great poets require a 
public ; we have been content with the immortal 
melodies that we sung more than two thousand 
years ago by the waters of Babylon and wept. 
They record our triumphs ; they solace our afflic- 
tion. Great orators are the creatures of popular 
assemblies ; we were permitted only by stealth to 
meet even in our temples. And as for great 
writers, the catalogue is not blank. What are all 
the schoolmen, Aquinas himself, to Maimonides ? 
and as for modern philosophy, all springs from 
Spinoza. 

“ But the passionate and creative genius, 
that is the nearest link to Divinity, and which 
no human tyranny can destroy, though it can di- 
vert it ; that should have stirred the hearts of 
nations by its inspired sympathy, or governed 
senates by its burning eloquence; has found a 
medium for its expression, to which, in spite of 
your prejudices and your evil passions, you have 
been obliged to bow. The ear, the voice, the 
fancy teeming with combinations, the imagination 
fervent with picture and emotion, that came from 
Caucasus, and which we have preserved unpol- 
luted, have endowed us with almost the exclusive 
privilege of Music ; that science of harmonious 
sounds, which the ancients recognised as most 
divine, and deified in the person of their most 
beautiful creation. I speak not of the past ; 
though, were I to enter into the history of the 
lords of melody, you would find it in the annals 
of Hebrew genius. But at this moment even, 
musical Europe is ours. There is not a company 
of singers, not an orchestra in a single capital, 
that is not crowded with our children under the 
feigned names which they adopt to conciliate the 
dark aversion which your posterity will some day 
disclaim with shame and disgust. Almost every 
great composer, skilled musician, almost every 
voice that ravishes you with its transporting 
strains, springs from our tribes. The catalogue 
is too vast to enumerate ; too illustrious to dwell 
for a moment on secondary names, however emi- 
nent. Enough for us that the three great crea- 
tive minds to whose exquisite inventions all na- 
tions at this moment yield — Rossini, Meyerbeer, 
Mendelssohn, are of Hebrew race ; and little do 
your men of fashion, your muscadins of Paris, and 


your dandies of London, as they thrill into rap- 
tures at the notes of a Pasta or a Grisi- — little do 
they suspect that they are offering their homage 
to ‘ the sweet singers of Israel ! ’ ” 


CHAPTER XVI. 

It was noon of the day on which Sidonia was 
to leave the Castle. The wind was high ; the vast 
white clouds scudded over the blue heaven ; the 
leaves yet green, and tender branches snapped 
like glass, were whirled in eddies from the trees ; 
the grassy sward undulated like the ocean with a 
thousand tints and shadows. From the window of 
the music-room Lucretia Colonna gazed on the 
turbulent sky. 

The heaven of her heart, too, was disturbed. 

She turned from the agitated external world 
to ponder over her inward emotion. She uttered 
a deep sigh. 

Slowly she moved towards her harp ; wildly, 
almost unconsciously, she touched with one hand 
its strings, while her eyes were fixed on the 
ground. An imperfect melody resounded ; yet 
plaintive and passionate. It seemed to attract 
her soul. She raised her head, and then, touch- 
ing the strings with both her hands, she poured 
forth tones of deep, yet thrilling power : 

“lam a stranger in the halls of a stranger! Aht 
whither shall I flee ? 

“ To the castle of my fathers in the green mountains ; 

to the palace of my fathers in the ancient city ? 

“ There is no flag on the castle of my fathers in the 
green mountains: silent is the palace of my 
fathers in the ancient city. 

“ Is there no home for the homeless ? Can the unloved 
never find love ? 

“Ah! thou fliest away, fleet cloud:— he will leave us 
swifter than thee ! Alas ! cutting wind, thy 
breath is not so cold as his heart ! 

“ I am a stranger in the halls of a stranger ! Ah ! 
whither shall I flee ? ” 

The door of the music-room slowly opened. 
It was Sidonia. His hat was in his hand ; he was 
evidently on the point of departure. 

“ Those sounds assured me,” he said, calmly, 
but kindly, as he advanced, “ that I might find 
you here, on which I scarcely counted at so early 
an hour.” 

“ You are going then ? ” said the Princess. 

“ Mv carriage is at the door ; the Marquess 
has delayed me ; I must be in London to-night. 
I conclude more abruptly than I could have 
wished one of the most agreeable visits I ever 
made ; and I hope you will permit me to express 
to you how much I am indebted to you for a so- 
ciety which those should deem themselves for- 
tunate who can more frequently enjoy.” 

ne held forth his hand ; she extended hers, 
cold as marble, which he bent over, but did not 
press to his lips. 

“ Lord Monmouth talks of remaining here 
some time,” he observed ; “ but I suppose next 
year, if not this, we shall all meet in some city of 
the earth ? ” 

Lucretia bowed ; and Sidonia, with a graceful 
reverence, withdrew. 

The Princess Lucretia stood for some mo- 
ments motionless ; a sound attracted her to the 


UNIVERSITY LIFE. 


87 


window ; she perceived the equipage of Sidonia 
whirling along the winding roads of the park. 
She watched it till it disappeared ; then quitting 
the window, she threw herself into a chair, and 
buried her face in her shawl. 


B 0 OK V. 

CHAPTER I. 

An University life did not bring to Coningsby 
that feeling of emancipation usually experienced 
by freshmen. The contrast between school and 
college life is, perhaps, under any circumstances, 
less striking to the Etonian than to' others : he 
has been prepared for becoming his own master 
by the liberty so wisely entrusted to him in his 
boyhood, and which is, in general, so discreetly 
exercised. But there were also other reasons 
why Coningsby should have been less impressed 
with the novelty of his life, and have encountered 
less temptations than commonly are met with in 
the new existence which an University opens to 
youth. In the interval which had elapsed be- 
tween quitting Eton and going to Cambridge, 
brief as the period may comparatively appear, 
Coningsby had seen much of the world. Three 
or four months, indeed, may not seem, at the 
first blush, a course of time which can very mate- 
rially influence the formation of character ; but 
time must not be counted by calendars, but by 
sensations, by thought. Coningsby had felt a 
good deal, reflected more. He had encountered 
a great number of human beings, offering a vast 
variety of character for his observation. It was 
not merely manners, but even the intellectual and 
moral development of the human mind, which in 
a great degree, unconsciously to himself, had 
been submitted to his study and his scrutiny. 
New trains of ideas had been opened to him ; his 
mind was teeming with suggestions. The horizon 
of his intelligence had insensibly expanded. He 
perceived that there were other opinions in the 
world, besides those to which he had been habit- 
uated. The depths of his intellect had been 
stirred. He was a wiser man. 

He distinguished three individuals whose ac- 
quaintance had greatly influenced his mind ; 
Eustace Lyle, the elder Millbank, above all, Sido- 
nia. He curiously meditated over the fact, that 
three English subjects, one of them a principal 
landed proprietor, another one of the most emi- 
nent manufacturers, and the third the greatest 
capitalist in the kingdom, all of them men of 
great intelligence, and doubtless of a high probity 
and conscience, were in their hearts disaffected 
with the political constitution of the country. 
Yet, unquestionably, these were the men among 
whom we ought to seek for some of our first citi- 
zens. What, then, was this repulsive quality in 
those institutions which we persisted in calling 
national, and which once were so ? Here was a 
great question. 

There was another reason, also, why Conings- 
by should feel a little fastidious among his new 
habits, and, without being aware of it, a little de- 
pressed. For three or four months, and for the 


first time in his life, he had passed his time in the 
continual society of refined and charming women. 
It is an acquaintance which, when habitual, exer- 
cises a great influence over the tone of the mind, 
even if it does not produce any more violent ef- 
fects. It refines the taste, quickens the percep- 
tion, and gives, as it were, a grace and flexibility 
to the intellect. Coningsby in his solitary rooms 
arranging his books, sighed, when he recalled the 
Lady Everinghams and the Lady Theresas ; the 
gracious Duchess ; the frank, good-natured Ma- 
dame Colonna ; that deeply interesting enigma, 
the Princess Lucretia ; and the gentle Flora. He 
thought with disgust of the impending dissipation 
of an University, which could only be an exag- 
geration of their coarse frolics at school. It 
seemed rather vapid this mighty Cambridge, over 
which they had so often talked in the playing 
fields of Eton, with such anticipations of its vast 
and absorbing interest. And those University 
honors that once were the great object of his as- 
pirations, they did not figure in that grandeur 
with which they once haunted his imagination. 

What Coningsby determined to conquer was 
knowledge. He had watched the influence of 
Sidonia in society with an eye of unceasing vigil- 
ance. Coningsby perceived that all yielded to 
him ; that Lord Monmouth even, who seemed to 
respect none, gave place to his intelligence ; ap- 
pealed to him, listened to him, was guided by 
him. What was the secret of this influence ? 
Knowledge. On all subjects, his views w r ere 
prompt and clear, and this not more from his 
native. sagacity and reach of view, than from the 
aggregate of facts which rose to guide his judg- 
ment and illustrate his meaning, from all coun- 
tries and all ages, instantly at his command. 

The friends of Coningsby were now hourly 
arriving. It seemed when he met them again, 
that they had all suddenly become men since they 
had separated ; Buckhurst especially. He had 
been at Paris, and returned with his mind very 
much opened, and trousers made quite in a new 
style. All his thoughts were, how soon he could 
contrive to get back again ; and he told them 
endless stories of actresses, and dinners at fash- 
ionable cafes. Yere enjoyed Cambridge most, 
because he had been staying with his family since 
he quitted Eton. Henry Sydney was full of 
church architecture, national sports, restoration 
of the order of *the Peasantry, and was to main- 
tain a constant correspondence on these and sim- 
ilar subjects with Eustace Lyle. Finally, how r - 
ever, they all fell into a very fair, regular, rou- 
tline life. They all read a little, but not with the 
enthusiasm which they had once projected. 
Buckhurst drove four-in-hand, and they all of them 
sometimes assisted him ; but not immoderately. 
Their suppers were sometimes gay, but never out- 
rageous ; and, among all of them, the school-friend- 
ship was maintained unbroken, and even undis- 
turbed. 

The fame of Coningsby preceded him at Cam- 
bridge. No man ever w r ent up from whom more 
was expected in every way. The dons awaited a 
sucking member for the University, the under- 
graduates were prepared to welcome a new Al- 
cibiades. He was neither ; neither a prig nor a 
profligate ; but a quiet, gentlemanlike, yet spir- 
ited young man, gracious to all, but intimate only 


88 


CONINGSBY. 


with his old friends, and giving always an im- 
pression in his general tone that his soul was not 
absorbed in his University. 

And yet, perhaps, he might have been coddled 
into a prig, or flattered into a profligate, had it 
not been for the intervening experience which he 
had gained between his school and college life. 
That had visibly impressed upon him, what before 
he had only faintly acquired from books, that 
there was a greater and more real world awaiting 
him, than to be found in those bowers ot Aca- 
demus to which youth is apt at first to attribute 
an exaggerated importance. A world of action 
and passion, of power and peril ; a world for 
which a great preparation was indeed necessary, 
severe and profound, but not altogether sucli an 
one as was now offered to him. Yet this want 
must be supplied, and by himself. Coningsby 
had already acquirements sufficiently consider- 
able, with some formal application, to ensure 
him at all times his degree. He was no longer 
engrossed by the intention he once proudly enter- 
tained of trying for honors, and he chalked out 
for himself that range of reading, which, digested 
by his thought, should furnish him in some degree 
with that various knowledge of the history of man 
to which he aspired. No, we must not for a mo- 
ment believe that accident could have long di- 
verted the course of a character so strong. The 
same desire that prevented the Castle of his 
grandfather from proving a Castle of Indolence 
to him, that saved him from a too early initiation 
into the seductive distractions of a refined and 
luxurious society, would have preserved Conings- 
by from the puerile profligacy of a college life, or 
from being that idol of private tutors, a young 
pedant. It was that noble ambition, the highest 
and the best, that must be born in the heart and 
organised in the brain, which will not let a man 
be content, unless his intellectual power is recog- 
nised by his race, and desires .that it should con- 
tribute to their welfare. It is the heroic feeling; 
the feeling that in old days produced demi-gods ; 
without which no state is safe ; without which 
political institutions are meat without salt ; the 
Crown a bauble, the Church an establishment, 
Parliaments debating-clubs, and Civilisation itself 
but a fitful and transient dream. 

+_ 

CHAPTER II. 

Less than a year after the arrival of Conings- 
by at Cambridge, and which he had only once 
quitted in the interval, and that to pass a short 
time in Berkshire with his friend Buckhurst, oc- 
curred the death of King William IY. This 
event necessarily induced a dissolution of the 
Parliament, elected under the auspices of Sir 
Robert Peel in 1834, and after the publication of 
the Tamworth Manifesto. 

The death of the King was a great blow to what 
had now come to be generally styled the “ Conserva- 
tive Cause.” It was quite unexpected ; within a 
fortnight of his death, eminent persons still be- 
lieved that “ it was only the hay-fever.” Had his 
Majesty lived until after the then impending Regis- 
tration the Whigs would have been again dismissed. 
Nor is there any doubt that, under these circum- 


stances, the Conservative Cause would have se- 
cured for the new ministers a parliamentary ma- 
jority. What would have been the consequences 
to the country, if the four years of Whig rule, 
from 1837 to 1841, had not occurred? It is 
easier to decide what would have been the con- 
sequences to the Whigs. Some of their great 
friends might have lacked blue ribbons and Lord- 
lieutenancies ; and some of their little friends 
comfortable places in the Customs and Excise. 
They would have lost, undoubtedly, the distribu- 
tion of four years’ patronage ; we can hardly say 
the exercise of four years’ power ; but they rvould 
have existed at this moment as the most power- 
ful and popular Opposition that ever flourished in 
this country, if, indeed, the course of events had 
not long ere this carried them back to their old 
posts in a proud and intelligible position. The 
Reform Bill did not do more injury to the Tories, 
than the attempt to govern this country without 
a decided parliamentary majority did the Whigs. 
The greatest of all evils is a weak government. 
They cannot carry good measures, they are forced 
to carry bad ones. 

The death of the King was a great blow to 
the Conservative Cause ; that is to say, it dark- 
ened the brow of Tadpole, quailed the heart of 
Taper, crushed all the rising hopes of those nu- 
merous statesmen who believe the country must 
be saved if they receive twelve hundred a year. 
It is a peculiar class, that; £1,200 per annum, 
paid quarterly, is their idea of political science 
and human nature. To receive £1,200 per an- 
num is government; to try to receive £1,200 per 
annum is opposition ; to wish to receive £1,200 
per annum is ambition. If a man wants to get 
into Parliament, and does not want to get £1,200 
per annum, they look upon him as daft ; as a be- 
nighted being. They stare in each other’s face, 
and ask, “ What can * * * * * want to get into 
Parliament for ? ” They have no conception that 
public reputation is a motive power, and with 
many men the greatest. They have as much 
idea of fame or celebrity, even of the masculine 
impulse of an honorable pride, as eunuchs of 
manly joys. 

The twelve-hundred-a-yearers were in despair 
about the King’s death. Their loyal souls were 
sorely grieved that his gracious Majesty had not 
outlived the Registration. All their happy inven- 
tions about “ hay-fever,” circulated in confidence, 
and sent by post to chairmen of Conservative 
Associations, followed by a royal funeral ! Gen- 
eral election about to take place with the old 
registration; government boroughs against them, 
and the young Queen for a cry. What a cry ! 
Youth, beauty, and a Queen ! Taper grew pale 
at the thought. What could they possibly get up 
to countervail it ? Even Church and Corn-laws 
together would not do; and then Church was 
sulky, for the Conservative Cause had just made 
it a present of a commission, and all that the 
country gentlemen knew of Conservatism was, 
that it would not repeal the Malt Tax, and had 
made them repeal their pledges. Yet a cry must 
be found. A dissolution without a cry, in the 
Taper philosophy, would be a world without a 
sun. A rise might be got by “Independence 
of the House of Lords ; ” and Lord Lyndhurst’s 
summaries might be well circulated at one penny 


THE CONSERVATIVE CAUSE. 


per hundred, large discount allowed to Conserva- 
tive Associations, and endless credit. Tadpole, 
however, was never very fond of the House of 
Lords : besides, it was too limited. Tadpole 
wanted the young Queen brought in ; the rogue ! 
At length, one morning, Taper came up to him 
with a slip of paper, and a smile of complacent 
austerity on his dull visage, “ I think, Hr. Tad- 
pole, that will do ! ” 

Tadpole took the paper and read, “ Our 
Young Queen, and our Old Institutions.” 

The eyes of Tadpole sparkled as if they had 
met a gnomic sentence of Periander or Thales ; 
then turning to Taper, he said : 

“ What do you think of ‘ ancient,’ instead of 
‘ old ? ’ 

“ You cannot have 1 Our modern Queen and 
our ancient Institutions,’ ” said Hr. Taper. 

The dissolution was soon followed by an elec- 
tion for the borough of Cambridge. The Con- 
servative Cause candidate was an old Etonian. 
That was a bond of sympathy which imparted 
zeal even to those who were a little sceptical of the 
essential virtues of Conservatism. Every under- 
graduate especially who remembered “ the distant 
spires,” became enthusiastic. Buclchurst took 
a very decided part. He cheered, he canvassed, 
he brought men to the poll whom none could 
move ; he influenced his friends and his compan- 
ions. Even Coniugsby caught the contagion, and 
Vere, who had imbibed much of Coningsby’s po- 
litical sentiment, prevailed on himself to be neu- 
tral. The Conservative Cause triumphed in the 
person of its Eton champion. The day the mem- 
ber was chaired, several men in Coningsby’s 
rooms were talking over their triumph. 

“ By Jove ! ” said the panting Buckhurst, 
throwing himself on the sofa, “ it was well done ; 
never was anything better done. An immense 
triumph ! The greatest triumph the Conservative 
Cause has had. And yet,” he added laughing, 
“ if any fellow were to ask me what the Conserv- 
tive Cause is, I am sure I should not know what 
to say.” 

“Why, it’s the cause of our glorious institu- 
tions,” said Coningsby. “A Crown robbed of 
its prerogatives ; a Church controlled by a com- 
mission ; and an Aristocracy that does not lead.” 

“•Under whose genial influence, the order of 
the Peasantry, ‘ a country’s pride,’ has vanished 
from the face of the land,” said Henry Sydney, 
“ and is succeeded by a race of serfs, who are 
called laborers, and who burn ricks.” 

“ Under which,” continued Coningsby, “ the 
Crown has become a cipher; the Church a sect; 
the Nobility drones; and the People drudges.” 

“It is the great constitutional cause,” said 
Lord Vere, “that refuses everything to opposi- 
tion ; yields everything to agitation ; conservative 
in Parliament, destructive out-of-doors ; that has 
no objection to any change provided only it be 
effected by unauthorised means.” 

“ The first public association of men,” said 
Coningsby, “ who have w r orked for an avowed end 
without enunciating a single principle.” 

“ And who have established political infideli- 
ty throughout the land,” said Lord Henry. 

“ By Jove ! ” said Buckhurst, “ what infernal 
fools we have made ourselves this last week ! ” 

“Nay,” said Coningsby smiling, “it w r as our 


89 

last school-boy weakness. Floreat Etona, under 
all circumstances.” 

“ I certainly, Coningsby,” said Lord Vere, 
“ shall not assume the Conservative Cause, in- 
stead of the cause for which Hampden died in the 
field, and Sydney on the scaffold.” 

“ The cause for which Hampden died in the 
field and Sydney on the scaffold,” said Conings- 
by, “ -was the cause of the Venetian Republic.” 

“ Hoav — how ? ” said Buckhurst. 

“ I repeat it,” said Coningsby. “ The great 
object of the Whig leaders in England from the 
first movement under Hampden to the last most 
successful one in 1688, was to establish in Eng- 
land a high aristocratic republic on the model of 
the Venetian, then the study and admiration of 
all speculative politicians.. Read Harrington ; 
turn over Algernon Sydney ; and you will see how 
the minds of the English leaders in the seven- 
teenth century were saturated with the Venetian 
type. And they at length succeeded. William 
III. found them out in an instant. He told the 
Whig leaders, ‘ I will not be a Doge.’ He bal- 
anced parties ; he baffled them as the Puritans 
baffled them fifty years before. The reign of 
Anne was a struggle between the Venetian and 
the English systems. Two great Whig nobles, 
Argyle and Somerset, worthy of seats in the 
Council of Ten, forced their Sovereign ou her 
deathbed to change the ministry. They accom- 
plished their object. They brought in a new family 
on their own terms. George I. was a Doge ; 
George II. was a Doge ;• they were w hat William 
III., a great man, would not be. George III. 
tried not to be a Doge, but it was impossible ma- 
terially to resist the deeply-laid combination. He 
might get rid of the Whig magnificoes, but he 
could not get rid of the Venetian constitution. 
And a Venetian constitution did govern England 
from the accession of the House of Hanover until 
1832. Now I do not ask you, Vere, to relinquish 
the political tenets which in ordinary times 
would have been your inheritance. All I say is, 
the constitution introduced by your ancestors 
having been subverted by their descendants your 
contemporaries, beware of still holding Venetian 
principles of government when you have not a 
Venetian constitution to govern with. Do what I 
am doing, w r hat Henry Sydney and Buckhurst are 
doing, what other men that I could mention are 
doing, hold yourself aloof from political par- 
ties which, from the necessity of things, have 
ceased to have distinctive principles, and are 
therefore, practically only factions ; and w r ait and 
see, whether with patience, energy, honor, and 
Christian faith, and a desire to look to the na- 
tional welfare and not to sectional and limited 
interests ; whether, I say, we may not discover 
some great principles to guide us, to which we 
may adhere, and which then, if true, will ulti- 
mately guide and control others.” 

“ The Whigs are worn out,” said Vere, “ Con- 
servatism is a sham, and Radicalism is pollution.” 

“ I certainly,” said Buckhurst, “ when I get 
into the House of Commons, shall speak my mind 
without reference to any party whatever ; and all 
I hope is, we may all come in at the same time, 
and then we may make a party of our own.” 

“I have always heard my father say,” said 
Vere, “ that there w r as nothing so difficult as to 


90 


CONINGSBY. 


organise an independent party in the Ilouse of 
Commons.” 

“Ay! but that was in the Venetian period, 
Vere,” said Henry Sydney, smiling. 

“ I dare say,” said Buckhurst, “ the only way 
to make a party in the House of Commons is just 
the one that succeeds anywhere else. Men. must 
associate together. When you are living in the 
same set, dining together every day, and quizzing 
the Dons, it is astonishing how well men agree. 
As for me, I never would enter into a conspiracy, 
unless the conspirators were fellows who had 
been at Eton with me ; and then there would be 
no treachery.” 

“ Let us think of principles, and not of par- 
ties,” said Coningsby. 

“ For my part,” said Buckhurst, “ whenever 
a political system is -breaking up, as in this coun- 
try at present, I think the very best thing is to 
brush all the old Dons off the stage. They never 
take to the new road kindly. They are always 
hampered by their exploded prejudices and obso- 
lete traditions. I don’t think a single man, Vere, 
that sat in the Venetian Senate ought to be al- 
lowed to sit in the present English House of Com- 
mons.” 

“ Well, no one does iu our family except my 
uncle Philip,” said Lord Henry ; “ and the mo- 
ment I want it, he will resign ; for lie detests Par- 
liament. It interferes so with his hunting.” 

“Well, we all have fair parliamentaiw pros- 
pects,” said Buckhurst. “ That is something. I 
wish we were in now.” 

“ Heaven forbid ! ” said Coningsby. “ I trem- 
ble at the responsibility of a seat at any time. 
With my present unsettled and perplexed views, 
there is nothing from which I should recoil so 
much as the House of Commons.” 

“ I quite agree with you,” said Henry Sydney. 
“ The best thing we can do is to keep as clear of 
political party as we possibly can. How many 
men waste the best part of their lives in painfully 
apologising for conscientious deviation from a 
parliamentary course which they adopted when 
they were boys, without thought, or prompted by 
some local connection, or interest to secure a 
seat.” 

It was the midnight following the morning 
when this conversation took place, that Conings- 
by, alone, and having just quitted a rather bois- 
terous party of wassailers who had been celebrat- 
ing at Buckhurst’s rooms the triumph of “ Eton 
Statesmen,” if not of Conservative principles, 
stopped in the precincts of that Royal College, 
that reminded him of his school-days, to cool his 
brow in the summer air, that even at that hour 
was soft, and to calm his mind in the contempla- 
tion of the still, the sacred, and the beauteous 
scene that surrounded him. 

There rose that fane, the pride and boast of 
Cambridge, not unworthy to rank among the 
chief temples of Christendom. Its vast form was 
exaggerated in the uncertain hour ; part shrouded 
in the deepest darkness, while a flood of silver 
light suffused its southern side, distinguished with 
revealing beam the huge ribs of its buttresses, 
and bathed with mild lustre its airy pinnacles. 

“ Where is the spirit that raised these walls ? ” 
thought Coningsby. “ Is it indeed extinct ? Is 
then this civilisation, so much vaunted, insepara- 


ble from moderate feelings and little thoughts ? 
If so, give me back barbarism ! But I cannot 
believe it. Man that is made in the image of the 
Creator, is made for God-like deeds. Come what 
come may, I will cling to the heroic principle. It 
can alone satisfy my soul.” 


CHAPTER III. 

We must now revert to the family, or rather 
the household, of Lord Monmouth, in which con- 
siderable changes and events had occurred since 
the visit of Coningsby to the Castle in the preced- 
ing autumn. 

In the first place, the earliest frost of the win- 
ter had carried off the aged proprietor of Hellings- 
ley, that contiguous estate which Lord Monmouth 
so much coveted, the possession of which was in- 
deed one of the few objects of his life, and to se- 
cure which he was prepared to pay far beyond its 
intrinsic value, great as that undoubtedly was. 
Yet Lord Monmouth did not become its possessor. 
Long as his mind had been intent upon the sub- 
ject, skilful as had been his combinations to se- 
cure his pre} r , and unlimited the means which 
were to achieve his purpose, another stepped in, 
and without his privity, without even the consola- 
tion of a struggle, stole away the prize ; and this 
too a man whom he hated, almost the only in- 
dividual out of his own family that he did hate ; 
a man who had crossed him before in similar en- 
terprises ; who was his avowed foe ; had lavished 
treasure to oppose him in elections ; raised asso- 
ciations against his interest ; established journals 
to assail him ; denounced him in public ; agitated 
against him in private ; had declared more than 
once that he would make “ the county too hot 
for him ; ” his personal, inveterate, indomitable 
foe, Mr. Millbank of Mill bank. 

The loss of Hellingsley was a bitter disap- 
pointment to Lord Monmouth ; but the loss of it 
to such an adversary touched him to the quick. 
He did not seek to control his anger ; he could 
not succeed even in concealing his agitation. He 
threw upon Rigby that glance so rare with him, 
but under which men always quailed ; that play 
of the eye which Lord Monmouth shared in com- 
mon with Henry VIII., that struck awe into the 
trembling Commons when they had given an ob- 
noxious vote, as the King entered the gallery of 
his palace, and looked around him. 

It was a look which implied that dreadful 
question, “ Why have I bought you that such 
things should happen ? Why have I unlimited 
means and unscrupulous agents ? ” It made even 
Rigby feel ; even his brazen tones -were hushed. 

To fly from everything disagreeable was the 
practical philosophy of Lord Monmouth ; but he 
was as brave as he was sensual. He would not 
shrink before the new proprietor of Hellingsley. 
He therefore remained at the Castle with an ach- 
ing heart, and redoubled his hospitalities. An 
ordinary mind might have been soothed by the 
unceasing consideration and the skilful and' deli- 
cate flattery that ever surrounded Lord Mon- 
mouth ; but his sagacious intelligence was never 
for a moment the dupe of his vanity. He had no 
self-love, and as he valued no one, there were 


DEATH OF PRINCE COLONNA. 


91 


really no feelings to play upon. He saw through 
everybody and everything ; and when he had de- 
tected their purpose, discovered their weakness 
or their vileness, he calculated whether they could 
contribute to bis pleasure or his convenience in a 
degree that counterbalanced the objections which 
might be urged against their intentions, or their 
less pleasing and profitable qualities. To be 
pleased was always a principal object with Lord 
Monmouth ; but when a man w r ants vengeance, gay 
amusement is not exactly a satisfactory substitute. 

A month elapsed, Lord Monmouth with a se- 
rene or smiling visage to his guests, but in pri- 
vate taciturn and morose. He scarcely ever gave 
a word to Mr. Rigby, but continually bestowed 
oh him glances which painfully affected the appe- 
tite of that gentleman. In a hundred ways it was 
intimated to Mr. Rigby that he was not a wel- 
come guest, and yet something was continually 
given him to do which rendered it impossible for 
him to take his departure. In this state of affairs, 
another event occurred which changed the cur- 
rent of feeling, and by its possible consequences 
distracted the Marquess from his brooding medi- 
tations over his discomfiture in the matter of 
Hellingsley. The Prince Colonna, who, since the 
steeple-chase, had imbibed a morbid predilection 
for such amusements, and indeed for every spe- 
cies of rough-riding, was thrown from his horse 
and killed on the spot. 

This calamity broke up the party at Conings- 
by, which was not at the moment very numerous. 
Mr. Rigby, by command, instantly seized the op- 
portunity of preventing the arrival of other guests 
who were expected. This catastrophe was the 
cause of Mr. Rigby resuming in a great measure 
his old position in the Castle. There were a 
great many things to be done, and all disagree- 
able; he achieved them all, and studied every- 
body’s convenience. Coroners’ inquests, funerals 
especially, weeping women, these were all spec- 
tacles which Lord Monmouth could not endure, 
but he was so high-bred, that he would not for 
the world that there should be in manner or de- 
gree the slightest deficiency in propriety or even 
sympathy. But he wanted somebody to do every- 
thing that was proper; to be considerate and con- 
soling and sympathetic. Mr. Rigby did it all; 
gave evidence at the inquest, was chief mourner 
at the funeral, and arranged everything so well 
that not a single emblem of death crossed the 
sight of Lord Monmouth ; while Madame Colonna 
found submission in his exhortations, and the 
Princess Lucretia, a little more pale and pensive 
than usual, listened with tranquillity to his dis- 
course on the vanity of all sublunary things. 

When the tumult had subsided, and habits 
and feelings had fallen into their old routine and 
relapsed into their ancient channels, the Mar- 
quess proposed that they should all return to 
London, and with great formality, though with 
warmth, begged that Madame Colonna w r ould ever 
consider his roof as her owm. All were glad to 
quit the Castle, which now presented a scene so 
different from its former animation, and Madame 
Colonna, weeping, accepted the hospitality of her 
friend, until the impending expansion of the 
spring would permit her to return to Italy. This 
notice of her return to her own country seemed 
to occasion the Marquess great disquietude. 


After they had remained about a month in 
London, Madame Colonna sent for Mr. Rigby one 
morning to tell him how very painful it was to 
her feelings to remain under the roof of Mon- 
mouth House without the sanction of a husband ; 
that the circumstance of being a foreigner, under 
such unusual affliction, might have excused, 
though not authorised, the step at first, and for a 
moment ; but that the continuance of such a 
course was quite out of the question ; that she 
owed it to herself, to her step-child, no longer to 
trespass on this friendly hospitality, which, if per- 
sisted in, might be liable to misconstruction. 
Mr. Rigby listened with great attention to this 
statement, and never in the least interrupted 
Madame Colonna ; and then offered to do that 
which he was convinced the lady desired, namely, 
to make the Marquess acquainted Avith the pain- 
ful state of her feelings. This he did according 
to his fashion, and with sufficient dexterity. Mr. 
Rigby himself was extremely anxious to know 
which way the wind blew r , and the mission with 
Avhich he had been entrusted, fell in precisely with 
his inclinations and necessities. The Marquess 
listened to the communication and sighed, then 
turned gently round and surveyed himself in the 
mirror and sighed again, then said to Rigby — 

“ You understand exactly what I mean, Rigby. 
It is quite ridiculous their going, and infinitely 
distressing to me. They must stay.” 

Rigby repaired to the Princess full of mysteri- 
ous bustle, and with a face beaming with impor- 
tance and satisfaction. He made much of the 
two sighs ; fully justified the confidence of the 
Marquess in his comprehension of unexplained 
intentions ; prevailed on Madame Colonna to 
have some regard for the feelings of one so de- 
voted ; expatiated on the insignificance of Avorldly 
misconstructions, when replied to by such hon- 
orable intentions ; and fully succeeded in his mis- 
sion. They did stay. Month after month rolled 
on, and still they stayed ; every month all the 
family becoming more resigned, or more content, 
and more cheerful. As for the Marquess him- 
self, Mr. Rigby never remembered him more 
serene and even joyous. His Lordship scarcely 
ever entered general society. The Colonna family 
remained in strict seclusion ; and he preferred 
the company of these accomplished and con- 
genial friends to the mob of the great world. 

Between Madame Colonna and Mr. Rigby 
there had always subsisted considerable confi- 
dence. Now, that gentleman seemed to have 
achieved fresh and greater claims to her regard. 
In the pleasure with which he looked forward to 
her approaching alliance Avith his patron, he re- 
minded her of the readiness Avith wdiich he had 
embraced her suggestions for the marriage of her 
daughter with Coningsby. Always obliging, she 
was never Avearied of chanting his praises to her 
noble admirer, who was apparently much grati- 
fied she should bestow her esteem on one of 
whom she would necessarily in after-life see so 
much. It is seldom the lot of husbands that 
their confidential friends gain the regards of their 
brides. 

“ I am delighted you all like Rigby,” said 
Lord Monmouth, “ as you will see so much of 
him.” 

The remembrance of the Hellingsley failure 


92 


CONINGSBY. 


seemed to be quite erased from the memory of 
the Marquess Rigby never recollected him more 
cordial and confidential, and more equable in his 
manner. lie told Rigby one day, that he wished 
that Monmouth House should possess the most 
sumptuous and the most fanciful boudoir in Lon- 
don or Paris. What a hint for Rigby ! That 
gentleman consulted the first artists, and gave 
them some hints in return ; his researches on 
domestic decoration ranged through all ages ; he 
even meditated a rapid tour to mature his inven- 
tions ; but his confidence in his native taste and 
genius ultimately convinced him that this move- 
ment was unnecessary. 

The summer advanced ; the death of the 
King occurred ; the dissolution summoned Rigby 
to Coningsby and the borough of Dari ford. His 
success was marked certain in the secret books 
of Tadpole and Taper. A manufacturing town, 
enfranchised under the Reform Act, already 
gained by the Conservative Cause ! Here was re- 
action — here influence of property ! Influence of 
character, too ; for no one so popular as Lord 
Monmouth ; a most distinguished nobleman of 
strict Conservative principles, who, if he carried 
the county and the manufacturing borough also, 
merited the strawberry-leaf. 

“ There will be no holding Rigby,” said 
Taper; “I'm afraid he will be looking for some- 
thing very high.” 

“ The higher’ the better,” rejoined Tadpole, 
“ and then he will not interfere with us. I like 
your high-fliers ; it is your plodders I detest, 
wearing old hats aud high-lows, speaking in com- 
mittee, and thinking they are men of business ; 
d — n them ! ” 

Rigby went down, and made some very im- 
pressive speeches ; at least they read very well 
in some of his second-rate journals, where all the 
uproar figured as loud cheering, and the inter- 
ruption of a cabbage-stalk was represented as a 
question from some intelligent individual in the 
crowd. The fact is, Rigby bored his audiance too 
much with history, especially with the French 
Revolution, which he fancied was his “ forte,” so 
that the people at last, whenever he made any 
allusion to the subject, were almost as much ter- 
rified as if they had seen the guillotine. 

Rigby had as yet one great advantage ; he 
had no opponent ; and, without personal opposi- 
tion, no contest can be very bitter. It was for 
some days Rigby versus Liberal principles : and 
Rigby had much the best of it ; for he abused 
Liberal principles roundly in his harangues, who, 
not being represented on the occasion, made no 
reply ; while plenty of ale, and some capital songs 
by Lucian Gay, who went down express, gave the 
right cue to the mob, who declared in chorus, be- 
neath the windows of Rigby’s hotel, that he was 
“ a fine old English gentleman ! ” 

But there was to be a contest ; no question 
about that, and a sharp one, although Rigby was 
to win, and well. The liberal party had been so 
fastidious about their new candidate, that they 
had none ready though several biting. Jawster 
Sharp thought at one time that sheer necessity 
would give him another chance still ; but even 
Rigby was preferable to Jawster Sharp, who, 
finding it would not do, published his long-pre*- 
pared valedictory address, in which he told his 


constituents that, having long sacrificed his health 
to their interests, he was now obliged to retire 
into the bosom of his family. And a very well- 
provided-for family, too. 

All this time the Liberal deputation from 
Darlford — two aldermen, three town-councillors, 
and the secretary of the Reform Association — 
were walking about London like mad things, 
eating luncheons and looking for a candidate. 
They called at the Reform Club twenty times in 
the morning, badgered whips and red-tapers ; 
were introduced to candidates, badgered candi- 
dates ; examined would-be members as if they 
were at a cattle-show, listened to political pedi- 
grees, dictated political pledges, referred to Han- 
sard to see how men had voted, inquired whether 
men had spoken, finally discussed terms. But 
they never could hit the right man. If the prin- 
ciples were right, there was no money ; and, if 
money were ready, money would not take pledges. 
In fact, they wanted a Phoenix; a very rich man, 
who would do exactly as they liked, with ex- 
tremely low opinions and with very high con- 
nections. 

“ If he would go for the ballot and had a han- 
dle to his name, it would have the best effect,” 
said the secretary of the Reform Association, 
“ because you see we are fighting against a Right 
Honorable, and you have no idea how that takes 
with the mob.” 

The deputation had been three days in town, 
and urged by despatches by every train to bring 
affairs to a conclusion, jaded, perplexed, confused, 
they were ready to fall into the hands of the 
first jobber or bold adventurer. They discussed 
over their dinner at a Strand Coffee-house the 
claims of the various candidates who had 
presented themselves. Mr. Donald Macpherson 
Macfarlane, who would only pay the legal ex- 
penses ; he was soon despatched. Mr. Gingerly 
Browne, of Jermyn Street, the younger son of a 
Baronet, who would go as far as 1000/. provided 
the seat was secured. Mr. Juggins, a distiller, 
2000/. man; but would not agree to any annual 
subscriptions. Sir Baptist Placid, vague about 
expenditure, but repeatedly declaring that “ there 
could be no difficulty on that head.” He, how- 
ever, had a moral objection to subscribing to the 
races, — and that was a great point at Darlford. 
Sir Baptist would subscribe a guinea per annum 
to the infirmary, and the same to all religious so- 
cieties without any distinction of sects — but 
races, it was not the sum, 100/. per annum, but 
the principle. He had a moral objection. 

In short, the deputation began to suspect, 
what was the truth, that they were a day after 
the fair, and that all the electioneering rips that 
swarm in the purlieus of political clubs during 
an impending dissolution of Parliament, men 
who become political characters in their small 
circle, because they have been talked of as once 
having an intention to stand for places for which 
they never offered themselves, or for having 
stood for places where they never could by any 
circumstance have succeeded, were in fact nib- 
bling at their dainty morsel. 

At this moment of despair, a ray of hope was 
imparted to them by a confidentiaf note from a 
secretary of the Treasury, who wished to see 
them at the Reform Club on the morrow. You 


AN UNEXPECTED CANDIDATE. 


93 


may be sure they were punctual to their appoint- 
ment. The secretary received them with great 
consideration. He had got them a candidate, 
and one of high mark — the son of a Peer, and 
connected with the highest Whig houses. Their 
eyes sparkled. A real honorable. If they liked 
he would introduce them immediately to the 
Honorable Alberic De Crecy. He had only to 
introduce them, as there was no difficulty either 
as to means or opinions, expenses or pledges. 

The secretary returned with a young gentle- 
man, whose diminutive stature would seem, from 
his smooth and singularly puerile countenance, 
to be merely the consequence of his very tender 
years ; but Mr. De Crecy was really of age, or at 
least would be by nomination-day. He did not 
say a word, but looked like the rosebud which 
dangled in the button-hole of his frock-coat. 
The aldermen and town-councillors were what is 
sometimes emphatically styled flabbergasted ; 
they were speechless from bewilderment. “ Mr. 
De Crecy will go for the ballot,” said the secreta- 
ry of the Treasury, with an audacious eye and a 
demure look, “ and for Total and Immediate, if 
you press him hard ; but don’t if you can help it, 
because he has an uncle, an old county member 
who has prejudices, and might disinherit him. 
However, we answer for him. And I am very 
happy that I have been the means of bringing 
about an arrangement which, I feel, will be mu- 
tually advantageous.” And so saying, the secre- 
tary effected his escape. 

Circumstances, however, retarded for a season 
the political career of the Honorable Alberic De 
Crecy. While the Liberal party at Darlford were 
suffering under the daily inflictions of Mr. Rigby’s 
slashing style, and the post brought them very un- 
satisfactory prospects of a champion, one offered 
himself, and in an address which intimated that he 
was no man of straw, likely to recede from any 
contest in which he chose to embark. The town 
was suddenly placarded with a letter to the Inde- 
pendent Electors from Mr. Millbank, the new pro- 
prietor of Hellingsley. 

He expressed himself as one not anxious to 
obtrude himself on their attention, and founding 
no claim to their confidence on his recent acquisi- 
tion; but at the same time as one resolved that 
the free and enlightened community, with which 
he must necessarily hereafter be much connected, 
should not become the nomination borough of any 
Peer of the realm without a struggle, if they chose 
to make one. And so he offered himself if they 
could not find a better candidate, without waiting 
for the ceremony of a requisition. He was ex- 
actly the man they wanted ; and though he had 
“ no handle to his name,” and was somewhat im- 
practicable about pledges, his fortune was so 
great, and his character so high, that it might be 
hoped that the people would be almost as content 
as if they were appealed to by some obscure scion 
of factitious nobility, subscribing to political en- 
gagements which he could not comprehend, and 
which, in general, are vomited with as much facil- 
ity as they are swallowed^ 


CHAPTER IY. 

Tiie people of Darlford, who, as long as the 
contest for their representation remained between 
Mr. Rigby and the abstraction called Liberal Prin- 
ciples, appeared to be very indifferent about the 
result, the moment they learned that lor the phrase 
had been substituted a substance, and that, too, 
in the form of a gentleman who was soon to figure 
as their resident neighbor, became excited, speed- 
ily enthusiastic. All the bells of all the churches 
rang when Mr. Millbank commenced his canvass; 
the Conservatives, on the alert, if not alarmed, 
insisted on their champion also showing himself 
in all directions : and in the course of four-and- 
twenty hours, such is the contagion of popular 
feeling, the town was divided into two parties, 
the vast majority of which were firmly convinced 
that the country could only be saved by the re- 
turn of Mr. Rigby, or preserved from inevitable 
destruction by the election of Mr. Millbank. 

The results of the two canvasses were such as 
had been anticipated from the previous reports 
of the respective agents and supporters. In these 
days the personal canvass of a candidate is a mere 
form. The whole country that is to be invaded 
has been surveyed and mapped out before entry ; 
every position reconnoitred ; the chain of commu- 
nications complete. In the present case, as was 
not unusual, both candidates were really sup- 
ported by numerous and reputable adherents ; 
and both had very good grounds for believing 
that they would be ultimately successful. But 
there was a body of the electors sufficiently nu- 
merous to turn the election, who would not prom- 
ise their votes : conscientious men who felt the 
responsibility of the duty that the constitution 
had entrusted to their discharge, and who would 
not make up their minds without duly weighing 
the respective merits of the two rivals. This 
class of deeply meditative individuals are dis- 
tinguished not only by their pensive turn of mind, 
but by a charitable vein that seems to pervade 
their being. Not only will they think of your re- 
quest, but for their parts they wish both sides 
equally well. Decision, indeed, as it must dash 
the hopes of one of their solicitors, seems infi- 
nitely painful to them ; they have always a good 
reason for postponing it. If you seek their suf- 
frage during the canvass, they reply, that the 
writ not having come down, the day of election 
is not yet fixed. If you call again to inform them 
that the writ has arrived, they rejoin, that perhaps 
after all there may not be a contest. If you call 
a third time, half dead with fatigue, to give them 
friendly notice that both you and your rival have 
pledged yourselves to go to the poll, they twitch 
their trousers, rub their hands, and with a dull 
grin observe, — 

“ Well, sir, we shall see.” 

“ Come. Mr. Jobson,” says one of the com 
mittee, with an insinuating smile, “give Mr. Mill- 
bank one.” 

“ Jobson, I think you and I know each other,” 
says a most influential supporter, with a know- 
ing nod. 

“Yes, Mr. Smith, I should think we did.” 

“ Come, come, give us one.” 


94 


CONINGSBY. 


“Well, I have not made up my mind yet, 
gentlemen. 

“ Jobson ! ” says a solemn voice, “ didn’t you 
tell me the other night you wished well to this 
gentleman ? ” 

“ So I do ; I wish well to everybody,” replies 
the imperturbable Jobson. 

“Well, Jobson,” exclaims another member 
of the committee, with a sigh, “ who could have 
supposed that you would have been an enemy ? ” 

“ I don’t wish to be no enemy to no man, Mr. 
Trip.” 

“ Come, Jobson,” says a jolly tanner, “ if I 
wanted to be a Parliament man, I don’t think 
you could refuse me one ! ” 

“ I don’t think I could, Mr. Oakfield.” 

“ Well, then, give it to my friend.” 

“ Well, sir, I’ll think about it.” 

“ Leave him to me,” says another member of 
the committee, with a significant look. “ I know 
how to get round him. It’s all right.” 

“Yes, leave him to Hayfield, Mr. Millbank; 
he knows how to manage him.” 

But all the same, Jobson continues to look 
as little tractable and lamb-like as can be well 
fancied. 

And here, in a work which, in an unpretend- 
ing shape, aspires to take neither an uninformed 
nor a partial view of the political history of the ten 
eventful years of the Reform struggle, we should 
pause for a moment to observe the strangeness, 
that only five years after the reconstruction of 
the electoral body by the Whig party, in a bor- 
ough called into political existence by their pol- 
icy, a manufacturing town, too, the candidate 
comprising in his person every quality and cir- 
cumstance which could recommend him to the 
constituency, and his opponent the worst speci- 
men of the Old Generation, a political adventurer, 
who owed the least disreputable part of his noto- 
riety to his opposition to the Reform Bill ; that 
in such a borough, under such circumstances, 
there should be a contest, and that, too, one of a 
very doubtful issue. 

What was the cause of this ? Are we to 
seek it in the “ Reaction ” of the Tadpoles and 
the Tapers ? That would not be a very satisfac- 
tory solution. Reaction, to a certain extent, is 
the law of human existence. In the particular 
state of affairs before us — England after the Re- 
form Act — it never could be doubtful that Time 
would gradually, and in some instances rapidly, 
counteract the national impulse of 1832. There 
never could have been a question, for example, 
that the English counties would have reverted to 
their natural allegiance to their proprietors ; but 
the results of the appeals to the third Estate in 
1835 and 1837 are not to be accounted for by a 
mere readjustment of legitimate influences. 

The truth is, that, considerable as are the 
abilities of the Whig leaders, highly accomplished 
as many of them unquestionably must be 
acknowledged in parliamentary debate, experi- 
enced in council, sedulous in office, eminent 
as scholars, powerful from their position, the ab- 
sence of individual influence, and of the pervad- 
ing authority of a commanding mind, have been 
the cause of the fall of the Whig party. 

Such a supremacy was generally acknowl- 
edged in Lord Grey on the accession of this party 


to power : but it was the supremacy of a tradi- 
tion rather than of a fact. Almost at the outset 
of his authority his successor was indicated. 
When the crisis arrived, the intended successor 
was not in the Whig ranks. It is in this virtual 
absence of a real and recognised leader, almost 
from the moment that they passed their great 
measure, that we must seek a chief cause of all 
that insubordination, all those distempered am- 
bitions, and all those dark intrigues, that finally 
broke up, not only the Whig government, but the 
Whig party ; demoralised their ranks, and sent 
them to the country, both in 1835 and 1837, with 
every illusion, which had operated so happily in 
their favor in 1832, scattered to the winds. In 
all things we trace the irresistible influence of 
the individual. 

And yet the interval that elapsed between 
1835 and 1837 proved, that there was all this time 
in the Whig array one entirely competent to the 
office of leading a great party, though his capa- 
city for that fulfilment was too tardily recognised. 

Lord John Russell has that degree of ima- 
gination, which, though evinced rather in senti- 
ment than expression, still enables him to gener- 
alise from the details of his reading and experi- 
ence ; and to take those comprehensive views, 
which, however easily depreciated by ordinary 
men in an age of routine, are indispensable to a 
statesman in the conjunctures in which we live. 
He understands, therefore, his position ; and he 
has the moral intrepidity which prompts him ever 
to dare that which his intellect assures him is 
politic. He is consequently, at the same time, 
sagacious and bold in council. As an adminis- 
trator he is prompt and indefatigable. He is not 
a natural orator, and labors under physical defi- 
ciencies which even a Demosthenic impulse could 
scarcely overcome. But he is experienced in de- 
bate, quick in reply, fertile in resource, takes 
large views, and frequently compensates for a dry 
and hesitating manner by the expression of those 
noble truths that flash across the fancy, and rise 
spontaneously to the lip, of men of poetic tem- 
perament when addressing popular assemblies. 
If we add to this, a private life of dignified repute, 
the accidents of his birth and rank, which never 
can be severed from the man, the scion of a great 
historic family, and born, as it were, to the hered- 
itary service of the State, it is difficult to ascer- 
tain at what period, or under what circumstances, 
the Whig party have ever possessed, or could ob- 
tain, a more efficient leader. 

But we must return to the Darlford election. 
The class of thoughtful voters was sufficiently 
numerous in that borough to render the result of 
the contest doubtful to the last; and on the eve 
of the day of nomination both parties were equal- 
ly sanguine. 

Nomination-day altogether is a most unsatis- 
factory affair. There is little to be done, and 
that little mere form. The tedious hours remain, 
and no one.can settle his mind to anything. It 
is not a holiday, for every one is serious ; it is 
not business, for no one can attend to it ; it is 
not a contest, for there is no canvassing; not an 
election, for there is no poll. It is a day of 
lounging without an object, and luncheons with- 
out an appetite; of hopes and fears ; confidence 
and dejection; bravado bets and secret hedging- 


NOMINATION-DAY. 


95 


and, about midnight, of furious suppers of grilled 
bones, brandy-and-water, and recklessness. 

The president and vice-president of the Con- 
servative Association, the secretary and the four 
solicitors who were agents, had impressed upon 
Mr. Rigby that it was of the utmost importance, 
and must produce a great moral effect, if he ob- 
tained the show of bauds. With his powers of 
eloquence and their secret organization, they flat- 
tered themselves it might be done. With this 
view, Rigby inflicted a speech of more than two 
hours’ duration on the electors, who bore it very 
kindly, as the mob likes, above all things, that 
the ceremonies of nomination-day should not be 
cut short: moreover, there is nothing that the 
mob likes so much as a speech. Rigby therefore 
had, on the whole, a far from unfavorable au- 
dience, and he availed himself of their forbearance. 
He brought in his crack theme, the guillotine, and 
dilated so elaborately upon its qualities, that one 
of the gentlemen below could not refrain from 
exclaiming, “ I wish you may get it.” This excla- 
mation gave Mr. Rigby what is called a great 
opening, which, like a practised speaker, he im- 
mediately seized. He denounced the sentiment as 
“ un-English,” and got very much cheered. Ex- 
cited by this success, Rigby began to call every- 
thing else “ un-English ” with which he did not 
agree, until menacing murmurs began to rise, 
when he shifted the subject, and rose into a grand 
peroration, in which he assured them that the 
eyes of the whole empire were on this particular 
election (cries of “ That’s true,” from all sides), 
and that England expected every man to do his 
duty. 

“ And who do you expect to do yours ? ” in- 
quired a gentleman below, “ about that ere pen- 
sion ? ” 

“ Rigby,” screeched a hoarse voice, “ don’t you 
mind ; you guv it them well.” 

“ Rigby, keep up your spirits, old chap : we 
will have you.” 

“ Now ! ” said a stentorian voice ; and a man 
as tall as Saul looked round him. This was the 
engaged leader of the Conservative mob ; the eye 
of every one of his minions was instantly on him. 
“Now! Our young Queen and our old institu- 
tions ! Rigby for ever ! ” 

This was a signal for the instant appearance 
of the leader of the Liberal mob. Magog Wrath, 
not so tall as Bully Bluck his rival, had a voice 
almost as powerful, a back much broader, and a 
countenance far more forbidding. “Now, my 
boys ; the Queen and Millbank for ever ! ” 

These rival cries were the signals for a fight 
between the two bands of gladiators in the face 
of the hustings ; the body of the people little in- 
terfering. Bully Bluck seized Magog Wrath’s 
colors ; they wrestled, they seized each other ; 
their supporters were engaged in mutual contest ; 
it appeared to be a most alarming and perilous 
fray ; several ladies from the windows screamed, 
one fainted ; a band of special constables pushed 
their way through the mob ; you heard their 
staves resounding on the skulls of all who opposed 
them, especially the little boys ; order was at 
length restored ; and, to tell the truth, the only 
hurts inflicted were those which came from 
the special constables. Bully Bluck and Magog 
Wrath, with all their fierce looks, flaunting colors, 


loud cheers, and desperate assaults, were, after 
all, only a couple of Condottieri, who were cau- 
tious never to wound each other. They were, in 
fact, a very peaceful police, who kept the town in 
awe, and prevented others from being mischievous 
who were more inclined to do harm. Their hired 
gangs were the safety-valves for all the scamps 
of the borough, who, receiving a few shillings per 
head for their nominal service, and as much drink 
as they liked after the contest, "were bribed and 
organised into peace and sobriety on the days in 
which their excesses were most to be appre- 
hended. 

Now Mr. Millbank came forward : he was 
brief compared with Mr. Rigby; but clear and 
terse. No one could misunderstand him. He 
did not favor his hearers with any history, but 
gave them his views about taxes, free trade, 
placemen, and pensioners, whoever and wherever 
they might be. 

“ Hilloa, Rigby, about that ere pension ? ” 

“ Millbank for ever ! We will have him.” 

“Never mind, Rigby, you’ll come in next 
time.” 

Mr. Millbank was energetic about resident 
representatives, but did not understand that a 
resident representative meant the nominee of a 
great Lord, who lived in a great castle (great 
cheering). There was a Lord once who declared 
that, if he liked, he would return his negro valet 
to Parliament; but Mr. Millbank thought those 
days were over. It remained for the people of 
Darlford to determine whether he was mistaken. 

“Never!” exclaimed the mob. “Millbank 
for ever ! Rigby in the river ! N o niggers, no 
walets ! ” 

“ Three groans for Rigby.” 

“ His language ain’t as purty as the Lunnun 
chap’s,” said a critic below ; “ but he speaks from 
his ’art: and give me the man who ’has got a 
’art.” 

“ That’s your time of day, Mr. Robinson.” 

“Now!” said Magog Wrath, looking around. 
“ Now, the Queen and Millbank for ever ! Hur- 
rah ! ” 

The show of hands was entirely in favor of 
Mr. Millbank. Scarcely a hand was held up for 
Mr. Rigby below, except by Bully Bluck and his 
prmtorians. The Chairman and the Deputy Chair- 
man of the Conservative Association, the Secre- 
tary and the four agents, severally and respec- 
tively went up to Mr. Rigby and congratulated 
him on the result, as it was a known fact, “ that 
the show of hands never won.” 

The eve of polling-day was now at hand. This 
is the most critical period of an election. All 
night parties in disguise were perambulating the 
different wards, watching each other’s tactics ; 
masks, wigs, false noses, gentles in livery coats, 
men in female attire — a silent carnival of manoeu- 
vre, vigilance, anxiety, and trepidation. The 
thoughtful voters about this time make up their 
minds ; the enthusiasts who have told you twenty 
times a day for the last fortnight, that they would 
get up in the middle of the night to serve you, 
require the most watchful cooping; all the indi- 
viduals who have assured you that “ their word 
is their bond,” change sides. 

Two of the Rigbyites met in the market-place 
about an hour after midnight. 


9G 


CONINGSBY. 


“ Well, how goes it ? ” said one. 

“ I have been the rounds. Tbe blunt’s going 
like the ward-pump. I saw a man come out of 
Moffatt’s house, muffled up with a mask on. I 
dodged him. It was Biggs.” 

“ You don’t mean that, do you ? D — e, 1 11 
answer for Moffatt.” 

“ I never thought he was a true man.” 

“ Told Robins ? ” 

“ I could not see him ; but I met young Gun- 
ning and told him.” 

“Young Gunning! That won’t do.” 

“ I thought he was as right as the town clock.” 

“ So did I, once. Hush ! who comes here ? 
The enemy, Franklin and Sampson Potts. Keep 
close.” 

“ I’ll speak to them. Good-night, Potts. Up 
rather late to-night ? ” 

“All fair election time. You ain’t snoring, 
are you ? ” 

“ Well, I hope the best man will win.” 

“ I am sure he will.” 

“ You must go for Moffatt early, to breakfast 
at the White Lion ; that’s your sort. Don’t 
leave him, and poll him yourself. I am going off 
to Solomon Lacey’s. He has got four Millbank- 
ites cooped up very drunk, and I want to get 
them quietly into the country before daybreak.” 

’Tis polling day ! The candidates are roused 
from their slumbers at an early hour by the music 
of their own bands perambulating the town, and 
each playing the “ conquering hero ” to sustain 
the courage of their jaded employers, by depriv- 
ing them of that rest which can alone tranquillise 
the nervous system. There is something in that 
matin burst of music, followed by a shrill cheer 
from the boys of the borough, the only inhabit- 
ants vet up, that is very depressing. 

The committee-rooms of each candidate are 
soon rife with black reports; each side has re- 
ceived fearful bulletins of the preceding night 
campaign ; and its consequences as exemplified 
in the morning, unprecedented tergiversations, 
mysterious absences ; men who breakfast with 
one side and vote with the other; men who won’t 
come to breakfast ; men who won’t leave break- 
fast. 

At ten o’clock Mr. Rigby was in a majority of 
twenty-eight. 

The polling was brisk and equal until the mid- 
dle of the day, when it became slack. Mr. Rig- 
by kept a majority, but an inconsiderable one. 
Mr. Millbank’s friends were not disheartened, as 
it was known that the leading members of Mr. 
Rigby’s Committee had polled ; whereas his op- 
ponent’s were principally reserved. At a quarter- 
past two there was great cheering and uproar. 
The four voters in favor of Millbank, whom Solo- 
mon Lacey had cooped up, made drunk, and car- 
ried into the country, had recovered their senses, 
made their escape, and voted as they originally 
intended. Soon after this, Mr. Millbank was de- 
clared by his Committee to be in a majority of 
one, but the Committee of Mr. Rigby instantly 
posted a placard, in large letters, to announce 
that, on the contrary, their man was in a majority 
of nine. 

“It we could only have got another registra- 
tion,” whispered the principal agent to Mr. Rig- 
by, at a quarter-past four. 


“ You think it’s all over, then ? ” 

“ Why, I do not see now how w r e can win. 
We have polled all our dead men, and Millbank 
is seven a-head.” 

“ I have no doubt we shall be able to have a 
good petition,” said the consoling chairman of 
the Conservative Association. 


CHAPTER V. 

It was not with feelings of extreme satisfac- 
tion that Mr. Rigby returned to London. The 
loss of Ilellingsley, followed by the loss of the 
borough to Ilellingsley’s successful master, w r ere 
not precisely the incidents which would be ad- 
duced as evidence of Mr. Rigby’s good manage- 
ment or good fortune. Hitherto that gentleman 
had persuaded the world that he was not only 
very clever, but that he was also always in luck ; 
a quality which many appreciate more even than 
capacity. His reputation was unquestionably 
damaged, both with his patron and his party. 
But what the Tapers and the Tadpoles thought 
or said, what even might be the injurious effect 
on his own career of the loss of this election, as- 
sumed an insignificant character when compared 
with its influence on the temper and disposition 
of the Marquess of Monrhouth. 

And yet his carriage is now entering the 
court-yard of Monmouth House, and, in all prob- 
ability, a few minutes would introduce him to 
that presence before which he had, ere this, 
trembled. The Marquess was at home, and anx- 
ious to see Mr. Rigby. In a few minutes that 
gentleman was ascending the private staircase, 
entering the antechamber, and waiting to be re- 
ceived in the little saloon, exactly as our Con- 
ingsby did more than five years ago, scarcely less 
agitated, but by feelings of a very different char- 
acter. 

“ Well, you made a good fight of it,” exclaim- 
ed the Marquess, in a cheerful and particularly 
cordial tone, as Mr. Rigby entered his dressing- 
room. “Patience ! We shall win next time.” 

This reception instantly reassured the defeated 
candidate, though its contrast to that which he 
expected rather perplexed him. He entered into 
the details of the election, talked rapidly of the 
next registration, the propriety of petitioning; 
accustomed himself to hearing his voice with its 
habitual volubility in a chamber where he had 
feared it might not sound for some time. 

“ D — n politics ! ” said the Marquess. “ These 
fellows are in for this Parliament, and I am really 
weary of the whole affair. I begin to think the 
Duke was right, and it would have been best to 
have left them to themselves. I am glad you 
have come up at once, for I want you. The fact 
is, I am going to be married.” 

This was not a startling announcement to Mr. 
Rigby ; he was prepared for it, though scarcely 
could have hoped that he would have been favored 
with it on the present occasion, instead of a morose 
comment on his misfortunes. Marriage, then, w r as 
the predominant idea of Lord Monmouth at the 
present moment, in whose absorbing interest all 
vexations were forgotten. Fortunate Rigby ! Dis- 
gusted by the failure of his political combinations, 


THE WRONG WOMAN. 


97 


his disappointments in not dictating to the count} 7 
and not carrying the borough, and the slight pros- 
pect at present of obtaining the great object of 
his ambition, Lord Monmouth had resolved to 
precipitate his fate, was about to marry immedi- 
ately, and quit England. 

“You will be wanted, Rigby,” continued the 
Marquess. “ We must have a couple of trustees, 
and I have thought of you as one. You know 
you are my executor ; and it is better not to bring 
in unnecessarily new names into the management 
of my affairs. Lord Eskdale will act with you.” 

Rigby then, after all, w r as a lucky man. After 
such a succession of failures, he bad returned 
only to receive fresh and the most delicate marks 
of his patron’s good feeling and consideration. 
Lord Monmouth’s trustee and executor! “You 
know you are my executor.” Sublime truth ! It 
ought to be blazoned in letters of gold in the most 
conspicuous part of Rigby’s library, to remind him 
perpetually of his great and impending destiny. 
Lord Monmouth’s executor, and very probably 
one of his residuary legatees ! A legatee of some 
sort he knew he was. What a splendid memento 
morif What cared Rigby for the borough of 
Darlford ? And as for his political friends, he 
wished them joy of their barren benches. Noth- 
ing was lost by not being in this Parliament. 

It was then with sincerity that Rigby offered 
his congratulations to his patron. He praised the 
judicious alliance, accompanied by every circum- 
stance conducive to worldly happiness ; distin- 
guished beauty, perfect temper, princely rank. 
Rigby, who had hardly got out of his hustings’ 
vein, was most eloquent in his praises of Madame 
Colonna. 

“A very amiable woman,” said Lord Mon- 
mouth, “ and very handsome. I always admired 
her ; and a very agreeable person too ; I dare say 
a very good temper, but I am not going to marry 
her.” 

“Might I then ask who is ” 

“Her step-daughter, the Princess Lucretia,” 
replied the Marquess, very quietly, and looking at 
his ring. 

Here was a thunderbolt ! Rigby had made 
another mistake. He had been working all this 
time for the wrong woman ! The consciousness 
of being a trustee alone sustained him. There 
was an inevitable pause. The Marquess would 
not speak, however, and Rigby must. He babbled 
rather incoherently about the Princess Lucretia 
being admired by everybody ; also that she was 
the most fortunate of women, as well as the most 
accomplished ; he was just beginning to say he had 
known her from a child, when discretion stopped 
his tongue, which had a habit of running on 
somewhat rashly ; but Rigby, though he often 
blundered in his talk, had the talent of extricating 
himself from the consequence of his mistakes. 

“ And Madame must be highly gratified by all 
this?” observed Mr. Rigby, with an inquiring 
accent. He was dying to learn how she had first 
received the intelligence, and congratulated him- 
self that his absence at his contest had preserved, 
him from the storm. 

“ Madame Colonna knows nothing of our in- 
tentions,” said Lord Monmouth. “And by the 
bye, that is the very business on -which I wish to 
see you, Rigby. I wish you to communicate them 

7 


to her. We are to be married, and immediately. 
It would gratify me that the wife of Lucretia’s 
father should attend our wedding. You under- 
stand exactly what I mean, Rigby — 1 must have 
no scenes. Always happy to see the Princess 
Colonna under my roof; but then I like to live 
quietly, particularly at present ; harassed as I 
have been by the loss of these elections, by all 
this bad management, and by all these disappoint- 
ments on subjects in which I was led to believe 
success was certain. Madame Colonna is at 
home ; ” and the Marquess bowed Mr. Rigby out 
of the room. 


CHAPTER VI. 

The departure of Sidonia from Coningsby 
Castle, in the autumn, determined the Princess 
Lucretia on a step which had for some time be- 
fore his arrival occupied her brooding imagina- 
tion. Nature had bestowed on this lady an am- 
bitious soul and a subtile spirit ; she could dare 
much and could execute finely. Above all things 
she coveted power ; and though not free from the 
characteristic susceptibility of her sex, the qual- 
ities that could engage her passions or fascinate 
her fancy must partake of that intellectual emi- 
nence which distinguished her. Though the Prin- 
cess Lucretia in a short space of time had seen 
much of the world, she had as yet encountered no 
hero. In the admirers whom her rank, and some- 
times her intelligence, assembled around her, her 
master had not yet appeared. Her heart had not 
trembled before any of those brilliant forms whom 
she was told her sex admired ; nor did she envy 
any one the homage which she did not appreciate. 
There was, therefore, no disturbing element in the 
worldly calculations which she applied to that 
question which is, to woman, what a career is to 
man, the question of marriage. She would marry 
to gain power, and therefore she wished to marry 
the powerful. Lord Eskdale hovered around her, 
and she liked him. She admired his incompara- 
ble shrewdness ; his freedom from ordinary pre- 
judices ; the selfishness which was always good- 
natured, and the imperturbability that was not 
callous. But Lord Eskdale had hovered round 
many; it was his easy habit. He liked clever 
women, young, but who had seen something of 
the world. The Princess Lucretia pleased him 
much ; with the form and mind of a woman even 
in the nursery. He had watched her develop- 
ment with interest; and had witnessed her 
launched in that world where she floated at once 
with as much dignity and consciousness of su- 
perior power, as if she had braved for seasons its 
waves and its tempests. 

Musing over Lord Eskdale, the mind of Lu- 
cretia was drawn to the image of his friend — her 
friend — the friend of her parents. And why not 
marry Lord Monmouth ? The idea pleased her. 
There was something great in the conception ; 
difficult and strange. The result, if achieved, 
would give her all that she desired. She devoted 
her mind to this secret thought. She had no 
confidants. She concentrated her intellect on 
one point, and that was to fascinate the grand- 
father of Coningsby, while her step-mother was- 


98 


CONINGSBY. 


plotting that she should marry his grandson. 
The volition of Lucretia Colonna was, if not su- 
preme, of a power most difficult to resist. There 
was something charm-like and alluring in the 
conversation of one who who was silent to all 
others ; something in the tones of her low, rich 
voice which acted singularly on the nervous sys- 
tem. It was the voice of the serpent ; indeed, 
there was an undulating movement in Lucretia, 
when she approached you, which irresistibly re- 
minded you of that mysterious animal. 

Lord Monmouth was not insensible to the 
spell, though totally unconscious of its purpose. 
He found the society of Lucretia vei’y agreeable 
to him ; she was animated, intelligent, original ; 
her inquiries were stimulating; her comments 
on what she saw, and heard, and read, racy and 
often indicating a fine humor. But all this was 
reserved for his ear. Before her parents, as be- 
fore all others, Lucretia was silent, a little scorn- 
ful, never communicating, neither giving nor seek- 
ing amusement, shut up in herself. 

Lord Monmouth fell therefore into the habit 
of riding and driving with Lucretia alone. It 
was an arrangement which he found made his 
life more pleasant. Nor was it displeasing to 
Madame Colonna. She looked upon Lord Mon- 
mouth’s fancy for Lucretia as a fresh tie for 
them all. Even the Prince, when his wife called 
his attention to the circumstance, observed it 
with satisfaction. It was a circumstance which 
represented in his mind a continuance of good 
eating and good drinking, fine horses, luxurious 
baths, unceasing billiards. 

In this state of affairs appeared Sidonia, 
known before to her step-mother, but seen by Lu- 
cretia for the first time. Truly, he came, saw, 
and conquered. Those eyes that rarely met 
another’s, were fixed upon his searching yet un- 
impassioned glance. She listened to that voice, 
full of music yet void of tenderness ; and the 
spirit of Lucretia Colonna bowed before an intel- 
ligence that commanded sympathy, yet offered 
none. 

Lucretia naturally possessed great qualities as 
well as great talents. Under a genial influence, 
her education might have formed a being capable 
of imparting and receiving happiness. But she 
found herself without a guide. Her father of- 
fered her no love ; her step-mother gained from 
her no respect. Her literary education was the re- 
sult of her own strong mind and inquisitive 
spirit. She valued knowledge, and she therefore 
acquired it. But not a single moral principle or 
a single religious truth had ever been instilled in- 
to her being. Frequent absence from her own 
country had by degrees broken off even an habit- 
ual observance of the forms of her creed; while 
a life of undisturbed indulgence, void of all anx- 
iety and care, while it preserved her from many 
of the temptations to vice, deprived her of that 
wisdom “ more precious than rubies,” which ad- 
versity and affliction, the struggles and the sor- 
rows of existence, can alone impart. 

Lucretia had passed her life in a refined, but 
rather dissolute society. Not indeed that a word 
that could call forth a maiden blush, conduct that 
could pain the purest feelings, could be heard or 
witnessed in those polished and luxurious circles. 
The most exquisite taste pervaded their atmos- 


phere ; and the uninitiated who found themselves 
in those perfumed chambers and those golden sa- 
loons, might believe, from all that passed before 
them, that their inhabitants were as pure, as 
orderly, and as irreproachable as their furniture. 
But among the habitual dwellers in these delicate 
halls there was a tacit understanding, a prevalent 
doctrine that required no formal exposition, no 
proofs, and illustrations, no comment and no 
gloss ; which was indeed rather a traditional con- 
viction than an imparted dogma — that the exo- 
teric public were, on many subjects, the victims 
of very vulgar prejudices, which these enlight- 
ened personages wished neither to disturb nor to 
adopt. 

A being of such a temper, bred in such a 
manner ; a woman full of intellect and ambition, 
daring and lawless, and satiated with prosperity, 
is not made for equal fortunes and an uniform ex- 
istence. She would have sacrificed the world for 
Sidonia, for he had touched the fervent imagina- 
tion that none before could approach ; but that 
inscrutable man would not read the secret of her 
heart; and, prompted alike by pique, the love of 
power, and a weariness of her present life, Lu- 
cretia resolved on that great result which Mr. 
Rigby is now about to communicate to the Prin- 
cess Colonna. 

About half-an-hour after Mr. Rigby had en- 
tered that lady’s apartments it seemed that all 
the bells of Monmouth House were ringing at the 
same time. The sound even reached the Mar- 
quess in his luxurious recess ; who immediately 
took a pinch of snuff, and ordered his valet to 
lock the door of the ante-chamber. The Prin- 
cess Lucretia, too, heard the sounds; she was ly- 
ing on a sofa in her boudoir, reading the “ Infer- 
no,” and immediately mustered her garrison in 
the form of a French maid, and gave directions 
that no one should be admitted. Both the Mar- 
quess and his intended bride felt that a crisis was 
at hand, and resolved to participate in no scenes. 

The ringing ceased ; there was again silence 
Then there was another ring ; a very short, hasty, 
and violent pull ; followed by some slamming of 
doors. The servants, who were all on the alert, 
and had advantages of hearing and observation 
denied to their secluded master, caught a glimpse 
of Mr. Rigby endeavoring gently to draw back into 
her apartments Madame Colonna, furious amid his 
deprecatory exclamations. 

“For heaven’s sake, my dear Madame; for 
your own sake — now really — now I assure you — 
you are quite wrong — you are indeed — it is a 
complete misapprehension — I will explain every- 
thing. I entreat — I implore — whatever you like 
— just what you please — only listen.” 

Then the lady, with a mantling visage and 
flashing eye, violently closing the door, was again 
lost to their sight. A few minutes after, there 
was a moderate ring, and Mr. Rigby, coming out 
of the apartments, with his cravat a little out of 
order, as if he had had a violent shaking, met the 
servant who would have entered. 

“ Order Madame Colonna’s travelling car- 
riage,” he exclaimed in a loud voice, “ and send 
Mademoiselle Conrad here directly. I don’t think 
the fellow hears me,” added Mr. Rigby, and fol- 
lowing the servant, he added in a low tone with a 
significant glance, “No travelling carriage; no 


A BRILLIANT WEDDING. 


99 


Mademoiselle Conrad ; order the britska round as 
usual.” 

Nearlv another hour passed ; there was another 
ring ; very moderate indeed. The servant was 
informed that Madame Colonna was coming 
down ; and she appeared as usual. In a beauti- 
. ful morning dress, and leaning on the arm of Mr. 
Rigby, she descended the stairs, and was handed 
into her carriage by that gentleman, who, seating 
himself by her side, ordered them to drive to 
Richmond. 

Lord Monmouth having been informed that 
all was calm, and that Madame Colonna, attended 
by Mr. Rigby, had gone to Richmond, ordered his 
carriage, and, accompanied by Lucretia and Lu- 
cian Gay, departed immediately for Blackwall, 
where, in whitebait, a quiet bottle of claret, the 
society of his agreeable friends, and the contem- 
plation of the passing steamers, he found a mild 
distraction and an amusing repose. 

Mr. Rigby reported that evening to the Mar- 
quess on his return, that all was arranged and 
tranquil. Perhaps he exaggerated the difficul- 
ties, to increase the service ; but according to his 
account they were very considerable. It required 
some time to make Madame Colonna comprehend 
the nature of his communication. All Rigby’s 
diplomatic skill was expended in the gradual de- 
velopment. When it was once fairly put before 
her, the effect was appalling. That was the first 
great ringing of bells. Rigby softened a little 
what he had personally endured ; but he con- 
fessed she sprang at him like a tigress balked of 
her prey, and poured forth on him a volley of epi- 
thets, many of which Rigby really deserved. 
But after all, in the present instance, he was not 
treacherous, only base, which he always was. 
Then she fell into a passion of tears, and vowed 
frequently that she was not weeping for herself, 
but only for that dear Mr. Coningsby, who had 
been treated so infamously and robbed of Lucre- 
tia, and whose heart she knew must break. It 
seemed that Rigby stemmed the first violence of 
her emotion by mysterious intimations of an im- 
portant communication that he had to make; 
and, piquing her curiosity, he calmed her passion. 
But, really having nothing to say, he was nearly 
involved in fresh dangers. He took refuge in the 
affectation of great agitation which prevented ex- 
position. The lady then insisted on her travelling 
carriage being ordered and packed, as she v r as 
determined to set out for Rome that afternoon. 
This little occurrence gave Rigby some few min- 
utes to collect himself, at the end of which he 
made the princess several announcements of in- 
tended arrangements, all of which pleased her 
mightily, though they were so inconsistent with 
each other that, if she had not been a woman in 
a passion, she must have detected that Rigby was 
lying. He assured her almosfin the sgme breath, 
that she v. r as never to be separated from them, 
and that she was to have any establishment in any 
country she liked. He talked wildly of equipages, 
diamonds, shawls, opera boxes ; and, while her 
mind w r as bewildered wdtli these dazzling objects, 
be, with intrepid gravity, consulted her as to the 
exact amount she would like to have apportioned, 
independent of her general revenue, for the pur- 
poses of charity. 

At the end of two hours, exhausted by her 


I rage and soothed by these visions, Madame Oolon- 
na having grown calm and reasonable, sighed and 
murmured a complaint, that Lord Monmouth 
ought to have communicated this important intel- 
ligence in person. Upon this? Rigby instantly as- 
sured her, that Lord Monmouth had been for 
some time waiting to do so, but in consequence 
of her lengthened interview with Rigby, his 
Lordship had departed for Richmond with Lucre- 
tia, where he hoped that Madame Colonna and 
Mr. Rigby would join him. So it ended, with a 
morning drive and suburban dinner; Rigby, after 
what he had gone through, finding no difficulty in 
accounting for the other guests not being present, 
and bringing home Madame Colonna in the even- 
ing, at times almost as gay and good-tempered as 
usual, and almost oblivious of her disappoint- 
ment. 

When the Marquess met Madame Colonna he 
embraced her with great courtliness, and from 
that time consulted her on every arrangement. 
He took a very early occasion of presenting her 
with a diamond necklace of great value. The 
Marquess w'as fond of making presents to persons 
to whom he thought he had not behaved very 
well, and who yet spared him scenes. 

The marriage speedily followed, by special li- 
cense, at the villa of the Right Hon. Nicholas 
Rigby, who gave aw^ay the bride. The wedding 
was very select, but brilliant as the diamond 
necklace : a royal Duke and Duchess, Lady St. 
Julians, and a few others. Mr. Ormsby pre- 
sented the bride w ith a bouquet of precious stones, 
and Lord Eskdale w r ith a French fan in a diamond 
frame. It was a fine day ; Lord Monmouth, calm 
as if he were winning the St. Leger; Lucretia, 
universally recognised as a beauty ; all the guests 
gay, the Princess Colonna especially. 

The travelling carriage is at the door which 
is to bear away the happy pair. Madame Colon- 
na embraces Lucretia ; the Marquess gives a grand 
bow : they are gone. The guests remain awhile. 
A prince of the blood will propose a toast ; there 
is another glass of champagne quaffed, another 
ortolan devoured ; and then they rise and dis- 
perse. Madame Colonna leaves with Lady St. 
Julians, whose guest for a while she is to be- 
come. And in a few minutes their host is alone. 

Mr. Rigby retired into his library : the repose 
of the chamber must have been grateful to his 
feelings alter all this distraction. It was spa- 
cious, well stored, classically adorned, and opened 
on a beautiful lawm. Rigby threw himself into 
an ample chair, crossed his legs, and, resting his 
head on his arm, apparently fell into deep con- 
templation. 

He had some cause for reflection, and, though 
w'e did once venture to affirm that Rigby never 
either thought or felt, this perhaps may be the 
exception that proves the rule. 

He could scarcely refrain from pondering over 
the strange event which he had witnessed, and at 
which he had assisted. 

It was an incident that might exercise con- 
siderable influence over his fortunes. His patron 
married, and married to one who certainly did 
not offer to Mr. Rigby such a prospect of easy 
management as her step-mother ! Here w'ere new’ 
influences arisipg; new characters, new situa- 
tions, new contingencies. Was he thinking of all 


100 


CONINGSBY. 


this? He suddenly jumps up, hurries to a shelf 
and takes down a volume. It is his interleaved 
peerage, of which for twenty years he had been 
threatening an edition. Turning to the Marquis- 
ate of Monmouth, he took up his pen and thus 
made the necessary entry : — 

“ Married , second time , August Zrd , 1837, The 
Princess Lucretia Colonna , daughter of Prince 
Paul Colonna , horn at Pome , February 16 th } 
1819.” 

That was what Mr. Rigby called “a great 
fact.” There was not a peerage-compiler in 
England who had that date save himself. 

Before we close this slight narrative of the 
domestic incidents that occurred in the family of 
his grandfather since Coningsby quitted the 
Castle, we must not forget to mention what hap- 
pened to Villebecque and Flora. Lord Monmouth 
took a great liking to the manager. He found 
him very clever in many things independently of 
his profession ; he was useful to Lord Monmouth, 
and did his work in an agreeable manner. And 
the future Lady Monmouth was accustomed to 
Flora, and found her useful too, and did not like 
to lose her. And so the Marquess, turning all 
the circumstances in his mind, and being con- 
vinced that Villebecque could never succeed to 
any extent in England in his profession, and 
probably nowhere else, appointed him, to Ville- 
becque’s infinite satisfaction, Intendant of his 
household, with a considerable salary, while 
Flora still lived with her kind step-father. 


CHAPTER VII. 

Another year elapsed ; not so fruitful in inci- 
dents to Coningsby as the preceding ones, and 
yet not unprofitable passed. It had been spent 
in the almost unremitting cultivation of his in- 
telligence. He had read deeply aud extensively, 
digested his acquisitions, and had practised him- 
self in surveying them, free from those conven- 
tional conclusions and those traditionary infer- 
ences that surrounded him. Although he had re- 
nounced his once cherished purpose of trying 
for University honors, an aim which he found 
discordant with the investigations on which his 
mind was bent, he had rarely quitted Cambridge. 
The society of his friends, the great convenience 
of public libraries, and the general tone of studi- 
ous life around, rendered an University for him a 
genial residence. There is a moment in life, 
when the pride and thirst of knowledge seem to 
absorb our being, and so it happened now to 
Coningsby, who felt each day stronger in his in- 
tellectual resources, and each day more anxious 
and avid to increase them. The habits of public 
discussion fostered by the Debating Society were 
also for Coningsby no inconsiderable tie to the 
University. This was the arena in which he felt 
himself at home. The promise of his Eton days 
was here fulfilled. And while his friends listened 
to his sustained argument or his impassioned 
declamation, the prompt reply or the apt retort, 
they looked forward with pride through the vista 
of years to the time when the hero of the youth- 
ful Club should convince or dazzle in the senate. 
It is probable then that he would have remained 


at Cambridge with slight intervals until he had 
taken his degree, had not circumstances occurred 
which gave altogether a new turn to his thoughts. 

When Lord Monmouth had fixed his wedding- 
day he had written himself to Coningsby to an- 
nounce his intended marriage, and to request his 
grandson’s presence at the ceremony. The letter 
was more than kind ; it was warm and generous. 
He assured his grandson that this alliance should 
make no difference in the very ample provision 
which he had long intended for him ; that he 
should ever esteem Coningsby his nearest rela- 
tive ; and that, while his death would bring to 
Coningsby as considerable an independence as 
an English gentleman need desire, so in his life- 
time Coningsby should ever be supported as be- 
came his birth, breeding, and future prospects. 
Lord Monmouth had mentioned to Lucretia, that 
he was about to invite his grandson to their wed- 
ding, and the lady had received the intimation 
with satisfaction. It so happened that a few 
hours after, Lucretia, who now entered the pri- 
vate rooms of Lord Monmouth without previous- 
ly announcing her arrival, met Villebecque with 
the letter to Coningsby in his hand. Lucretia 
took it away from him, and said it should be 
posted with her own letters. It never reached 
its destination. Our friend learned the marriage 
from the newspapers, which somewhat astounded 
him ; but Coningsby was fond of his grandfather, 
and he wrote Lord Monmouth a letter of con- 
gratulation, full of feeling and ingenuousness, and 
which, while it much pleased the person to whom 
it was addressed, unintentionally convinced him 
that Coningsby had never received his original 
communication. Lord Monmouth spoke to Ville- 
becque, who could throw sufficient light upon the 
subject, but it was never mentioned to Lady Mon- 
mouth. The Marquess was a man who always 
found out every thing, and enjoyed the secret. 

Rather more than a year after the marriage, 
when Coningsby had completed his twenty-first 
year, the year which he had passed so quietly at 
Cambridge, he received a letter from his grand- 
father, informing him that after a variety of 
movements Lady Monmouth and himself were es- 
tablished in Paris for the season, and desiring 
that he would not fail to come over as soon as 
practicable, and pay them as long a visit as the 
regulations of the University would permit. So, 
at the close of the December term, Coningsby 
quitted Cambridge for Paris. 

Passing through London, he made his first 
visit to his banker at Charing Cross, on whom he 
had periodically drawn since he commenced his 
college life. He was in the outer counting-house, 
making some inquiries about a letter of credit, 
when one of the partners came out from an inner 
room, and invited him to enter. This firm had 
been for generations the bankers of the Conin^s- 
bv family; and it appeared that there was° a 
sealed box in their possession which had be- 
longed to the father of Coningsby, and they 
wished to take this opportunity of delivering ft 
to his son. This communication deeply in- 
terested him ; and as he was alone in London, at 
an hotel, and on the wing for a foreign country, 
he requested permission at once to examine it, 
in order that he might again deposit it with 
them : so he was shown into a private room for 


CONINGSBY VISITS PARIS. 


101 


that purpose. The seal was broken ; the box 
was full of papers, chiefly correspondence : 
among them was a packet described as letters 
from “ my dear Helen,” the mother of Conings- 
by. In the interior of this packet, there was^ a 
miniature of that mother. He looked at it; put 
it down ; looked at it again and again. He could 
not be mistaken. There was the same blue fillet 
in the bright hair. It was an exact copy tff that 
portrait which had so greatly excited his atten- 
tion when at Millbank ! This was a mysterious 
and singularly perplexing incident. It greatly 
agitated him. He was alone in the room when 
he made the discovery. When he had recovered 
himself, he sealed up the contents of the box, 
with the exception of his mother’s letters and the 
miniature, which he took away with him, and 
then re-delivered it to his banker for custody 
until his return. 

Coningsby found Lord and Lady Monmouth 
in a splendid hotel in the Faubourg St. Honore, 
near the English Embassy. His grandfather 
looked at him with marked attention, and re- 
ceived him with evident satisfaction. Indeed, 
Lord Monmouth was greatly pleased that Harry 
had come to Paris ; it was the University of the 
World, where everybody should graduate. Paris 
and London ought to be the great objects of all 
travellers ; the rest was mere landscape. 

It cannot be denied that between Lucretia 
and Coningsby there existed from the first a cer- 
tain antipathy ; and, though circumstances for a 
short time had apparently removed or modified 
the aversion, the manner of the lady when Con- 
ingsby was ushered into her boudoir, resplendent 
with all that Parisian taste and luxury could de- 
vise, was characterised by that frigid politeness 
which bad preceded the days of their more genial 
acquaintance. If the manner of Lucretia were 
the same as before her marriage, a considerable 
change might however be observed in her ap- 
pearance. Her fine form had become more 
developed ; while her dress, that she once totally 
neglected, was elaborate and gorgeous, and of 
the last mode. Lucretia was the fashion at 
Paris ; a great lady, greatly admired. A guest 
under such a roof, however, Coningsby was at 
once launched into the most brilliant circles of 
Parisian society, which he found fascinating. 

The art of society is, without doubt, perfectly 
comprehended and completely practised in the 
bright metropolis of France. An Englishman 
cannot enter a saloon without instantly feeling 
he is among a race more social than his com- 
patriots. What, for example, is more consum- 
mate than the manner in which a French lady 
receives her guests ? She unites graceful repose 
and unaffected dignity, with the most amiable re- 
gard for others. She sees every one ; she speaks 
to every one ; she sees them at the right mo- 
ment ; she says the right thing ; it is utterly im- 
possible to detect any difference in the position 
of her guest by the spirit in 'which she welcomes 
them. There is, indeed, throughout every circle 
of Parisian society, from the chateau to the caba- 
ret, a sincere homage to intellect ; and this with- 
out any maudlin sentiment. None sooner than 
the Parisians can draw the line between facti- 
tious notoriety and honest fame ; or sooner dis- 
tinguish between the counterfeit celebrity and 


the standard reputation. In England, we too 
often alternate between a supercilious neglect of 
genius and a rhapsodical pursuit of quacks. In 
England, when a new character appears in our 
circles, the first question always is, “ Who is 
he ? ” In France it is, “ What is he ? ” In Eng- 
land, “ How much a-year ? ” In France, “ What 
has he done ? ” 


CHAPTER VIII. 

0 

About a week after Coningsby’s arrival in 
Paris, as he was sauntering on the soft and sunny 
Boulevards, soft and sunny though Christmas, he 
met Sidonia. 

“So you are here?” said Sidonia. “Turn 
now with me, for I see you are only lounging, 
and tell me when you came, where you are, and 
what you have done since we parted. I have 
been here myself but a few days.” 

There was much to tell. And, when Conings- 
by had rapidly related all that had passed, they 
talked of Paris. Sidonia had offered him hospi- 
tality, until he learned that Lord Monmouth was 
in Paris, and that Coningsby was his guest. 

“ I am sorry you cannot come to me,” he re- 
marked ; “ I would have shown you everybody 
and everything. But we shall meet often.” 

“ I have already seen many remarkable things,” 
said Coningsby ; “ and met many celebrated per- 
sons. Nothing strikes me more in this brilliant 
city than the tone of its society, so much higher 
than our own. What an absence of petty per- 
sonalities ! How much conversation, and how 
little gossip ! Yet nowhere is there less pedantry. 
Here all women are as agreeable as is the remark- 
able privilege in London of some half-dozen. 
Men, too, and great men, develope their minds. 
A great man in England, on the contrary, is gen- 
erally the dullest dog in company. And yet, how 
piteous to think that so fair a civilisation should 
be in such imminent peril ! ” 

“ Yes ! that is a common opinion ; and yet I 
am somewhat sceptical of its truth,” replied Si- 
donia. “ I am inclined to believe that the social 
system of England is in infinitely greater danger 
than that of France. We must not be misled by 
the agitated surface of this country. The foun- 
dations of its order are deep and sure. Learn to 
understand France. France is a Kingdom with 
a Republic for its capital. It has been always so, 
for centuries. From the days of the League to 
the days of the Sections, to the days of 1830. It 
is still France, little changed ; and only more na- 
tional for it is less Frank and more Gallic ; as 
England has become less Norman and more Sax- 
on.” 

“ And it is your opinion, then, that the pres- 
ent King may maintain himself? ” 

“ Every movement in this country, however 
apparently discordant, seems to tend to that in- 
evitable end. He would not be on the throne if 
the nature of things had not demanded his pres- 
ence. The Kingdom of France required a Mon- 
arch ; the Republic of Paris required a Dictator. 
He comprised in his person both qualifications ; 
lineage and intellect ; blood for the provinces, 
brains for the city.” 


102 


CONINGSBY. 


“ What a position ! what an individual ! ” ex- 
claimed Coningsby. “ Tell me,” lie added, eager- 
ly, “ what is he ? This Prince of whom one hears 
in all countries at all hours ; on whose existence 
we are told the tranquillity, almost the civilisa- 
tion, of Europe depends, yet of whom we receive 
accounts so conflicting, so contradictory ; tell 
me, you who can tell me, tell me what he is.” 

Sidonia smiled at his earnestness. “ I have a 
creed of mine own,” he remarked, “ that the 
great characters of antiquity are at rare epochs 
reproduced for our wonder, or our guidance. 
Nature, wearied with mediocrity, pours the warm 
metal into an heroic mould. When circum- 
stances at length placed me in the presence of 
the King of France, I recognised — Ulysses ! ” 

“ But is there no danger,” resumed Conings- 
by, after the pause of a few moments, “ that the 
Republic of Paris may absorb the Kingdom of 
France ? ” 

“I suspect the reverse,” replied Sidonia. 
“ The tendency of advanced civilisation is in truth 
to pure Monarchy. Monarchy is indeed a govern- 
ment which requires a high degree of civilisation 
for its full development. It needs the support 
of free laws and manners, and of a widely-diffused 
intelligence. Political compromises are not to 
be tolerated except at periods of rude transition. 
An educated nation recoils from the imperfect 
vicariate of what is called a representative gov- 
ernment. Your House of Commons, that has ab- 
sorbed all other powers in the State, will in all 
probability fall more rapidly than it rose. Pub- 
lic opinion has a more direct, amove comprehen- 
sive, a more efficient organ for its utterance, than 
a body of men sectionally chosen. The Printing- 
press is a political element unknown to classic or 
feudal times. It absorbs in a great degree the 
duties of the Sovereign, the Priest, the Parlia- 
ment; it controls, it educates, it discusses. That 
public opinion, when it acts, would appear in the 
form of one who has no class interests. In an 
enlightened age the Monarch on the throne, free 
from the vulgar prejudices and the corrupt inter- 
ests of the subject, becomes again divine ! ” 

At this moment they reached that part of the 
Boulevards which leads into the Place of the Ma- 
deleine, whither Sidonia was bound; and Con- 
ingsby was about to quit his companion, when 
Sidonia said : 

“ I am only going a step over to the Rue 
Tronchet to say a few words to a friend of mine, 

M. P s. I shall not detain you five minutes ; 

and you should know him, for he has some capi- 
tal pictures, and a collection of Limoges w r are 
that is the despair of the dilettanti.” 

So saying they turned down by the Place of 
the Madeleine, and soon entered the court of .the 

hotel of M. P s. That gentleman received them 

in his gallery. After some general conversation, 
Coningsby turned towards the pictures, and left 
Sidonia with their host. The collection was rare, 
and interested Coningsby, though unacquainted 
with art. He sauntered on from picture to pic- 
ture until he reached the end of the gallery, 
where an open door invited him into a suite of 
rooms also full of pictures and objects of curios- 
ity and art. As he was entering a second cham- 
ber, he observed a lady leaning back in a cush- 
ioned chair, and looking earnestly on a picture. 


His entrance was unheard and unnoticed, for the 
lady’s back was to the door; yet Coningsby, ad- 
vancing in an angular direction, obtained nearly 
a complete view of her countenance. It was up- 
raised, gazing on the picture w r ith an expression 
of delight; the bonnet thrown back, while the 
large sable cloak of the gazer had fallen partly 
off. The countenance was more beautiful than 
the beautiful picture. Those glowing shades of 
the gallery to which love, and genius, and devo- 
tion, had lent their inspiration, seemed without 
life and lustre by the radiant and expressive pres- 
ence which Coningsby now beheld. 

The finely-arched brow was a little elevated, 
the soft dark eyes were fully opened, the nostril 
of the delicate nose slightly dilated, the small, 
yet rich, full lips just parted ; and over the clear, 
transparent visage there played a vivid glance of 
gratified intelligence. 

The lady rose, advanced towards the picture, 
looked at it earnestly for a few moments, and 
then, turning in a direction opposite to Coningsby, 
walked away. She was somewhat above the 
middle stature, and yet could scarcely be called 
tall ; a quality so rare, that even skilful dancers 
do not often possess it, w r as hers — that elastic 
gait that is so winning, and so often denotes the 
gaiety and quickness of the spirit. 

The fair object of his observation had ad- 
vanced into other chambers, and, as soon as it 
w r as becoming, Coningsby followed her. She had 
joined a lady and gentleman, w r ho were examin- 
ing an ancient carving in ivory. The gentleman 
was middle-aged and portly ; the elder lady tall 
and elegant, and with traces of interesting beauty. 
Coningsby heard her speak ; the w r ords were Eng- 
lish, but the accent not of a native. 

In the remotest part of the room, Coningsby, 
apparently engaged in examining some of that 
famous Limoges w r are of which Sidonia had spo- 
ken, watched wdth interest and intentness the 
beautiful being whom he had followed, and whom 
he concluded to be the child of her companions. 
After some little time, they quitted the apartment 
on their return to the gallery; Coningsby re- 
mained behind, caring for none of the rare and 
fanciful objects that surrounded him, yet com- 
pelled, from the fear of seeming obtrusive, for 
some minutes to remain. Then he too returned 
to the gallery, and, just as he had gained its end, 
he saw the portly gentleman in the distance 
shaking hands with Sidonia, the ladies apparently 
expressing their thanks and gratification to M. 

P s, and then all vanishing by the door 

through which Coningsby had originally entered. 

“ What a beautiful countrywoman of yours ! ” 
said M. P s, as Coningsby approached him. 

“ Is she my countrywoman ? I am glad to 
hear it; I have been admiring her,” he replied. 

“Yes,” said M. P s, “it is Sir Wallinger : 

one of your deputies ; dou’t you know him ? ” 

“ Sir Wallinger ! ” said Coningsby, “ no, I have 
not that honor.” He looked at Sidonia. 

“Sir Joseph Wallinger,” said Sidonia, “one 

of the new Whig baronets, and member for . 

I know him. He married a Spaniard. That is 
not his daughter, but his niece; the child of his 
wife’s sister. It is not easy to find anv one more 
beautiful.” 


RECEPTION AT THE DUCHESS DE G 


T‘S. 


103 


BOOK VI. 

CHAPTER I. 

The knowledge that Sidonia was in Paris 
greatly agitated Lady Monmouth. She received 
the intimation indeed from Coningsby at dinner 
with sufficient art to conceal her emotion. Lord 
Monmouth himself was quite pleased at the an- 
nouncement. Sidonia was his especial favorite ; 
he knew so much, had such an excellent judg- 
ment, and was so rich. He had always some- 
thing to tell you, was the best man in the world 
to bet on, and never wanted anything. A per- 
fect character according to the Monmouth ethics. 

In the evening of the day that Coningsby met 
Sidonia, Lady Monmouth made a little visit to 

the charming Duchess de G 1, who was, “ at 

home” every other night in her pretty hotel, 
with its embroidered white satin draperies, its 
fine old cabinets, and ancestral portraits of fa- 
mous name, brave marshals and bright princesses 
of the olden time, on its walls. These receptions 
without form, yet full of elegance, are what Eng- 
lish “ at homes ” were before the (mntijiental war, 
though now, by a curious perversion of terms, the 
easy domestic title distinguishes in England a 
formally-prepared and elaborately-collected as- 
sembly, in which every thing and eveay person 
are careful to be as little “ homely ” as possible. 
In France, on the contrary, ’tis on thes^q occa- 
sions, and in this manner, that society carries on 
that degree and kind of intercourse which in Eng- 
land we attempt awkwardly to maintain by the 
medium of that unpopular species of visitation 
styled a morning call ; which all complain that 
they have either to make or to endure. t 

Nowhere was this species of reception more 

happily conducted than at the Duchess de G 1. 

The rooms, though small, decorated with taste, 
brightly illumined ; a handsome and gracious 
hostess, the Duke the very pearl of gentlemen, 
and sons and daughters worthy of such parents. 
Every moment some one came in, and some one 
went away. In your way from a dinner to a ball, 
you stopped to exchange agreeable on dits. It 
seemed that every woman was pretty, every man 
a wit. Sure you were to find yourself surrounded 
by celebrities, and men were welcomed there, if 
they were clever, before they were famous, which 
showed it was a house that regarded intellect, 
and did not seek merely to gratify its vanity by 
being surrounded by the distinguished. 

Enveloped in a rich Indian shawl, and leaning 
back on a sofa, Lady Monmouth was engaged in 
conversation with the courtly and classic Count 

M e, when, on casually turning her head, she 

observed entering the saloon, Sidonia. She just 
caught his form bowing to the Duchess, and in- 
stantly turned her head and replunged into her 
conversation with increased interest. Lady Mon- 
mouth was a person who had the power of seeing 
all about her, everything and everybody, without 
appearing to look. She was conscious that Si- 
donia was approaching her neighborhood. Her 
heart beat in tumult ; she dreaded to catch the 
eye of that very individual whom she was so anx- 
ious to meet. He was advancing towards the sofa. 


Instinctively, Lady Monmouth turned from the 
Count, and began speaking earnestly to her other 
neighbor, a young daughter of the house, inno- 
cent and beautiful, not yet quite fledged, trying 
her wings in society under the maternal eye. She 
was surprised by the extreme interest which her 
grand neighbor suddenly took in all her pur- 
suits, her studies, her daily walks in the Bois de 
Boulogne. Sidonia, as the Marchioness had an- 
ticipated, had now reached the sofa. But no, it 
was to the Count, and not to Lady Monmouth, that 
he was advancing ; and they were immediately 
engaged in conversation. After some little time, 
when she had become accustomed to his voice, 
and found her own heart throbbing with less 
violence, Lucretia turned again, as if by accident, 
to the Count, and met the glance of Sidonia. She 
meant to have received him with haughtiness, but 
her self-command deserted her ; and, slightly ris- 
ing front the sofa, she welcomed him with a coun- 
tenance of extremc pallor and with some awkward- 
ness. 

His manner was such as might have assisted 
her, even had she been more troubled. It was 
marked by.! a degree of respectful friendliness. 
He expressed without reserve his pleasure at 
meeting fier again; inquired much how she had 
passed her time since they last parted ; asked 
more than once after the Marquess. The Count 
moved away; Sidonia took his seat. His ease 
and homage combined greatly relieved her. She 
expressed to him how kind her Lord w r ould con- 
sider his society, for the Marquess had suffered in 
health since Sidonia last saw him. Ilis periodical 
gout had left him, which made him ill and 
nervous. The Marquess received his friends at 
dinner every day. Sidonia, particularly amiable, 
offered Jiimself as a guest for the following one. 

“ And do you go to the great ball to-morrow ? ” 
inquired Lucretia, delighted with all that had oc- 
curred. 

“ I alw-ays go to their balls,” said Sidonia, “ I 
have promised.” 

There was a momentary pause; Lucretia, 
happier than she had been for a long time, her 
face a little flushed, and truly in a secret tumult 
of sweet thoughts, remembered she had been long 
there, and, offering her hand to Sidonia, bade him 
adieu until to-morrow. While he, as was his custom, 
soon repaired to the refined circle of the Countess 
d^ C — s — 1 — ne, a lady whose manners he always 
mentioned as his fair ideal, and whose house was 
his favorite haunt. 

Before to-morrow cdhaes, a word or two re- 
specting two other characters of this history con- 
nected with the family of Lord Monmouth. And 
first of Flora. La Petite was neither very well 
nor very happy. Her hereditary disease de- 
veloped itself; gradually, but in a manner alarm- 
ing to those w-ho loved her. She was very deli- 
cate, and suffered so much from the weakness of 
her chest, that she was obliged to relinquish sing- 
ing. This was really the only tie between her 
and the Marchioness, who, without being a petty 
tyrant, treated her often with unfeeling haughti- 
ness. She was, therefore, now rarely seen in the 
chambers of the great. In her own apartments 
she found, indeed, some distraction in music, for 
which she had a natural predisposition, but this- 
was a pursuit that only fed the morbid passion 


104 


CONINGSBY. 


of her tender soul. Alone, listening only to sweet 
sounds, or indulging in soft dreams that never 
could be realised, her existence glided away like 
a vision, and she seemed to become every day 
more fair and fragile. Alas ! hers was the sad 
and mystic destiny to love one whom she never 
met, and by whom, if she met him, she would 
scarcely, perhaps, be recognised. Yet in that 
passion, fanciful, almost ideal, her life was ab- 
sorbed, nor for her did the world contain an ex- 
istence, a thought, a sensation, beyond those that 
sprang from the image of the noble youth who 
had sympathised with her in her sorrows, and had 
softened the hard fortunes of dependence by his 
generous sensibility. Happy that, with many 
mortifications, it was still her lot to live under 
the roof of one who bore his name, and in whose 
veins flowed the same blood ! She felt indeed 
for the Marquess, whom she so rarely saw, and 
from whom she had never received much notice, 
prompted, it would seem, by her fantastic passion, 
a degree of reverence, almost of affection, which 
seemed occasionally, even to herself, as some- 
thing inexplicable and without reason. 

As for her fond step-father, M. Villebecque, 
the world fared very differently with him. His 
lively and enterprising genius, his ready and 
multiform talents, and his temper which defied 
disturbance, had made their way. He had be- 
come the very right hand of Lord Monmouth ; 
his only counsellor, his only confidant; his se- 
cret agent ; the minister of his will. And well did 
Villebecque deserve this trust, and ably did he 
maintain himself in the difficult position which 
he achieved. There was nothing which Ville- 
becque did not know, nothing which he could not 
do, especially' at Paris. He was master of his 
subject ; in all things the secret of success, and 
without which, however they may from accident 
dazzle the world, the statesman, the orator, the 
author, all alike feel the damning consciousness 
of being charlatans. 

Coningsby had made a visit to M. Villebecque 
aud Flora the day after his arrival., It was a 
recollection and a courtesy that evidently greatly 
gratified them. Villebecque talked very much 
and amusingly ; and Flora, whom Coningsby fre- 
quently addressed, very little, though she listened 
with great earnestness. Coningsby told her that 
he thought, from all he heard, she was too much 
alone, and counselled her to gaiety. But nature, 
that had made her mild, had denied her that con- 
stitutional liveliness of being which is the grace- 
ful property of French fromen. She was a lily of 
the valley, that loved seclusion and the tranquil- 
lity of virgin glades. Almost every day, as he 
passed their entresol , Coningsby would look into 
Villebecque’s apartments for a moment, to ask 
after Flora. 


CHAPTER II. 

Sidonia was to dine at Lord Monmouth’s the 
day after he met Lucretia, and afterwards they 
■were all to meet at a ball much talked of, and to 
which invitations were much sought; and which 
was to be given that evening by the Baroness S. 
de R d. 


Lord Monmouth’s dinners at Paris weije cele- 
brated. It was generally agreed that they had 
no rivals ; yet there w'ere others who had as skil- 
ful cooks, others who, for such a purpose, were 
equally profuse in their expenditure. What, 
then, was the secret spell of his success ? The 
simplest in the world, though no one seemed 
aware of it. His Lordship’s plates were always 
hot : whereas at Paris, in the best appointed 
houses, and at dinners which, for costly materials 
and admirable art in their preparation, cannot be 
surpassed, the effect is always considerably less- 
ened, and by a mode the most mortifying — by 
the mere circumstance that every one at a French 
dinner is served on a cold plate. The reason of 
a custom, or rather a necessity, which one would 
think a nation so celebrated for their gastro- 
nomical taste would recoil from, is really, it is be- 
lieved, that the ordinary French porcelain is so 
very inferior, that it cannot endure the prepar- 
atory heat for dinner. The common white pot- 
tery, for example, which is in general use, and 
always found at the cafes, will not bear vicinage 
to a brisk kitchen fire for half-an-hour. Now, if 
we only had that treaty of commerce with France 
which has been so often on the point of comple- 
tion, the fabrics of our unrivalled potteries, in ex- 
change for their capital wines, wruld be found 
throughout France. The dinners of both nations 
would be improved : the English would gain a 
delightful beverage, and the French, for the first 
time in their lives, would dine off hot plates. An 
unanswerable instance of the advantages of com- 
mercial reciprocity ! 

The guests at Lord Monmouth’s to-day were 
chiefly Carlists, individuals bearing illustrious 
names, that animate the page of history, and are 
indissolubly bound up with the glorious annals of 
their great country. They are the phantoms of a 
past, but real Aristocracy ; an Aristocracy that 
was founded on an intelligible principle ; which 
oiaimed great privileges for great purposes ; 
whose hereditary duties were such, that their 
possessors were perpetually in the eye of the 
nation, and who maintained, and, in a certain 
point of view, justified, their pre-eminence by con- 
stant illustration. 

It pleased Lord Monmouth to show great 
courtesies to a fallen race with whom he sym- 
pathised ; whose fathers had been his friends in 
the days of his hot youth ; whose mothers he had 
made love to ; whose palaces had been his home ; 
whose brilliant fetes he remembered ; whose fan- 
ciful splendor excited his early imagination ; and 
whose magnificent and wanton luxury had devel- 
oped his own predisposition for boundless enjoy- 
ment. Soubise and his suppers ; his cutlets and 
his mistresses ; the profuse and embarrassed De 
Lauragais, who sighed for “entire ruin,” as for a 
strange luxury, which perpetually eluded his 
grasp ; these were the heroes of the olden time 
that Lord Monmouth worshipped; the wisdom of 
our ancestors which he appreciated; and he 
turned to their recollection for relief from the 
vulgar prudence of the degenerate days on which 
he had fallen : days when nobles must be richer 
than other men, or they cease to have any dis-- 
tinction. 

It was impossible not to be struck by the ef- 
fective appearance of Lady Monmouth as she re- 


A FASHIONABLE PARISIAN BALL. 


105 


ceived her guests in grand toilet preparatory to 
the ball ; white satin and minever, a brilliant 
tiara. Her fine form, her costume of a fashion 
as perfect as its materials were sumptuous, and 
her presence always commanding and distin- 
guished, produced a general effect to which few 
could be insensible. It was the triumph of mien 
over mere beauty of countenance. 

The hotel of Madame S. de R d is not 

more distinguished by its profuse decoration, 
than by the fine taste which has guided the vast 
expenditure. Its halls of arabesque are almost 
without a rival ; there is not the slightest embel- 
lishment in which the hand and feeling of art are 
not recognised. The rooms were very crowded ; 
everybody distinguished in Paris was there: the 
lady of the Court, the duchess of the Faubourg, 
the wife of the rich financier, the constitutional 
Throne, the old Monarchy, the modern Bourse, 
were alike represented. Marshals of the Empire, 
Ministers of the Crown, Dukes and Marquesses, 
whose ancestors lounged in the (Eil de Boeuf ; 
diplomatists of all countries, eminent foreigners 
of all nations, deputies who led sections, members 
of learned and scientific academies, occasionally 
a stray poet ; a sea of sparkling tiaras, brilliant 
bouquets, glittering stars, and glowdng ribbons, 
many beautiful faces, many famous ones : un- 
questionably the general air of a first-rate Paris- 
ian saloon, on a great occasion, is not easily 
equalled. In London there is not the variety of 
guests ; nor the same size and splendor of saloons. 
Our houses are too small for reception. 

Coningsby, who had stolen away from his 
grandfather’s before the rest of the guests, was 
delighted with the novelty of the splendid scene. 
He had been in Paris long enough to make some 
acquaintances, and mostly with celebrated per- 
sonages. In his long fruitless endeavor to enter 
the saloon in which they danced, lie found him- 
self hustled against the illustrious Baron von 

H 1, whom he had sat next to at dinner a few 

days before at Count M e’s. 

“ It is more difficult than cutting through the 
Isthmus of Panama, Baron,” said Coningsby, al- 
luding to a past conversation. 

“Infinitely,” replied M. de H., smiling; “for 
I would undertake to cut through the Isthmus, 
and I cannot engage that I shall enter this ball- 
room.” 

Time, however, brought Coningsby into that 
brilliant chamber. What a blaze of light and 
loveliness; How coquettish are the costumes! 
How vivid the flowers ! To sounds of stirring 
melody, beautiful beings move with grace. Grace, 
indeed, is beauty in action. 

Here, where all are fair and everything is at- 
tractive, his eye is suddenly arrested by one ob- 
ject — a form of surpassing grace among the 
graceful, among the beauteous a countenance of 
unrivalled beauty. 

She was young among the youthful ; a face 
of sunshine amid all that artificial light ; her head 
placed upon her finely-moulded shoulders with a 
queen-like grace ; a coronet of w r l)ite roses on her 
dark brown hair ; her only ornament. It was the 
beauty of the picture-gallery. 

The eye of Coningsby never quitted her. 
When the dance ceased, he had an opportunity 
of seeing her nearer. He met her walking with 


her cavalier, and he was conscious that she ob- 
served him. Finally, lie remarked that she re- 
sumed a seat next to the lady whom he had mis- 
taken for her mother, but had afterwards under- 
stood to be Lady Wallinger. 

Coningsby returned to the other saloons ; he 
witnessed the entrance and reception of Lady 
Monmouth, who moved on towards the ball-room. 
Soon after this, Sidonia arrived ; he came in with 
the still handsome and ever courteous Duke 

D s. Observing Coningsby, he stopped to 

present him to the Duke. While thus convers- 
ing, the Duke, who is very fond of the English, 
observed, “ See, here is your beautiful country- 
woman that all the world are talking of. That 
is her uncle. He brings to me letters from one 
of your lords, whose name I cannot recollect.” 

And Sir Joseph and his lovely niece veritably 
approached. The Duke addressed them : asked 
them in the name of his Duchess to a concert on 
the next Thursday ; and, after a thousand com- 
pliments, moved on. Sidonia stopped; Conings- 
by could not refrain from lingering, but stood a 
little apart, and was about to move away, wdien 
there was a whisper, of which, w ithout hearing a 
word, he could*not resist the impression that he 
was the subject. He felt a little embarrassed, 
and was retiring, when he heard Sidonia reply to 
an inquiry of the lady, “ The same,” and then, 
turning to Coningsby, said aloud, “ Coningsby, 
Miss Millbank says that you have forgotten her.” 

Coningsby started, advanced, colored a little, 
could not conceal his surprise. The lad) 7 , too, 
though more prepared, was not without confu- 
sion, and for an instant looked dow T n. Conings- 
by recalled at that moment the long dark eye- 
lashes, and the beautiful, bashful countenance 
that had so charmed him at Millbank ; but two 
years had otherwise effected a wonderful change 
in the sister of his school-day friend, and trans- 
formed the silent, embarrassed girl into a woman 
of surpassing beauty and of the most graceful 
and impressive mien. 

“ It is not surprising that Mr. Coningsby 
should not recollect my niece,” said Sir Joseph, 
addressing Sidonia, and wishing to cover their 
mutual embarrassment; “but it is impossible 
for her or for any one connected w T ith her, not to 
be anxious at all times to express to him our 
sense of what we all owe him.” 

Coningsby and Miss Millbank were now in 
full routine conversation, consisting of questions ; 
how long she had been at Paris ; when she had 
heard last from Millbank ; how her father was ; 
also, how was her brother. Sidonia made an ob- 
servation to Sir Joseph on a passer-by, and then 
himself moved on; Coningsby accompanying his 
new friends, in a contrary direction, to the refresh- 
ment-room, to which they were proceeding. 

“ And you have passed a w inter at Rome,” 
said Coningsby. “ How I envy you ! I feel that 
I shall never be able to travel ! ” 

“ And why not ? ” 

“ Life, has become so stirring, that there is 
ever some great cause that keeps one at home.” 

“ Life, on the contrary, so swift, that all may 
see now that of which they once could only 
read.” 

“ The gold and silver sides of the shield,” 
said Coningsby, with a smile. 


IOC 


CONINGSBY 


“ And you, like a good knight, will maintain 
your own.” 

“ No, I would follow yours.” 

“ You have not heard lately from Oswald ? ” 

“ Oh, yes ; 1 think there are no such faithful 
correspondents as we are; I only wish we could 
meet.” 

“ You will soon ; but he is such a devotee of 
Oxford ; quite a monk ; and you, too, Mr. Con- 
ingsby, are much occupied.” 

“ Yes, and at the same time as Millbank. I 
was in hopes, when I once paid you a visit, I 
might have found your brother.” 

“ But that was such a rapid visit,” said Miss 
Millbank. 

“ I always remember it with delight,” said 
Coningsby. 

“ You were willing to be pleased; but Mill- 
bank, notwithstanding Rome, commands my 
affections, and in spite of this surrounding splen- 
dor, I could have wished to have passed my 
Christmas in Lancashire.” 

“ Mr. Millbank has lately purchased a very 
beautiful place in the county. I became ac- 
quainted with Ilellingsley when staying at my 
grandfather’s.” 

“ Ah ! I have never seen it ; indeed, I was 
very much surprised that papa became its pur- 
chaser, because he never will live there ; and Os- 
wald, I am sure, could never be tempted to quit 
Millbank. You know what enthusiastic ideas he 
has of his order ? ” 

“ Like all his ideas, sound, and high, and 
pure. I always duly appreciated your brother’s 
great abilities, and, what is far more important, 
his lofty mind. When I recollect our Eton days, 
I cannot understand how more than two years 
have passed away without our being together. I 
am sure the fault is mine. I might now have 
been at Oxford instead of Paris. And yet,” 
added Coningsby, “ that would have been a sad 
mistake, since I should not have had the happi- 
ness of being here.” 

“Oh, yes, that would have been a sad mis- 
take,” said Miss Millbank. 

“ Edith,” said Sir Joseph, rejoining his niece, 
from whom he had been momentarily separated, 
“ Edith, that is Monsieur Thiers.” 

In the meantime, Sidonia reached the ball- 
room, and sitting near the entrance was Lady 
Monmouth, who immediately addressed him. He 
was, as usual, intelligent and unimpassioned, and 
yet not without a delicate deference which is flat- 
tering to women, especially if not altogether un- 
worthy of it. Sidonia always admired Lucretia, 
and preferred her society to that of most persons. 
But the Lady was in error in supposing that she 
had conquered or could vanquish his heart. Si- 
donia was one of those men, not so rare as may 
be supposed, who shrink, above all things, from 
an adventure of gallantry with a woman in a po- 
sition. He had neither time nor temper for sen- 
timental circumvolutions. He detested the di- 
plomacy of passion : protocols, protracted negotia- 
tions, conferences, correspondence, treaties pro- 
jected, ratified, violated. He had no genius for 
the tactics of intrigue; your reconnoiterings, and 
marchings, and counter-marchings, sappings and 
minings, assaults, sometimes surrenders, and 
sometimes repulses. All the solemn and studied 


hypocrisies were to him infinitely wearisome ; 
and if the movements were not merely formal, 
they irritated him, distracted his feelings, dis- 
turbed the tenor of his mind, deranged his ner- 
vous system. Something of the old Oriental vein 
influenced him in his carriage towards women. 
He was oftener behind the scenes of the Opera 
House than in his box ; he delighted, too, in the 
society of ercupcu; Aspasia was his heroine. 
Obliged to appear much in what is esteemed pure 
society, he cultivated the acquaintance of clever 
women, because they interested him ; but in such 
saloons his feminine acquaintances were merely 
psychological. No lady could accuse him of tri- 
fling with her feelings, however decided might be 
his predilection for her conversation. He yielded 
at once to an admirer ; never trespassed by any 
chance into the domain of sentiment; never 
broke, by any accident or blunder, into the irreg- 
ular paces of flirtation ; was a man who notori- 
ously would never diminish by marriage the puri- 
ty of his race; and one who always maintained 
that passion and polished life were quite incom- 
patible. He liked the drawing-room, and he liked 
the desert, but he would not consent that either 
should trench on their mutual privileges. 

The Princess Lucretia had yielded herself to 
the spell of Sidonia’s society at Coningsby Castle, 
when she knew that marriage was impossible. 
But she loved him ; and with an Italian spirit. 
Now they met again, and she was the Marchion- 
ess of Monmouth, a very great lady, very much 
admired, and followed, and courted, and very 
powerful. It is our great moralist who tells us, 
in the immortal page, that an affair of gallantry 
with a great lady is more delightful than with 
ladies of a lower degree. In this he contradicts 
the good old ballad ; but certain it is, that Dr. 
Johnson announced to Boswell, “ Sir, in the case 
of a Countess the imagination is more excited.” 

But Sidonia was a man on whom the conven- 
tional superiorities of life produced as little effect 
as a flake falling on the glaciers of the high Alps. 
His comprehension of the world and human na- 
ture was too vast and complete ; he understood 
too well the relative value of things to appreciate 
anything but essential excellence ; and that not 
too much. A charming woman was not more 
charming to him because she chanced to be an 
empress in a particular district of one of the 
smallest planets ; a charming woman under any 
circumstances was not an unique animal. • When 
Sidonia felt a disposition to be spell-bound, he 
used to review in his memory all the charming 
women of whom he had read in the books of ail 
literatures, and whom he had known himself in 
every court and clime, and the result of his re- 
flections ever was, that the charming woman in 
question was by no means the paragon, which 
some who had read, seen, and thought less, might 
be inclined to esteem her. There was, indeed, 
no subject on which Sidonia discoursed so felici- 
tously as on woman, and none on which Lord 
Eskdale more frequently endeavored to attract 
him. He would tell you Talmudical stories 
about our mother Eve and the Queen of Sheba, 
which would have astonished you. There was 
not a tree lady ot Greece, Leontium and Phryne, 
Lais, Danae, and Lamia, the Egyptian girl Thonis, 
respecting whom he could not tell you as many 


THE MANUFACTURER AND HIS BEAUTIFUL DAUGHTER. 


107 


diverting tales as if they were ladies of Loretto ; 
not a nook of Athenaeus, not an obscure scholiast, 
not a passage in a Greek orator, that could throw 
light on these personages, which was not at his 
command. What stories he would tell you 
about Marc Antony and the actress Cvtheris in 
their chariot drawn by tigers ! What a charac- 
ter would he paint of that Flora who gave her 
gardens to the Roman people! It would draw 
tears to your eyes. No man was ever so learned 
in the female nWners of the last centuries of 
polytheism as Sidonia. You would have sup- 
posed that he had devoted his studies peculiarly 
to that period, if you had not chanced to draw 
him to the Italian middle ages. And even these 
startling revelations were almost eclipsed by his 
anecdotes of tlie Court of Henry III. of France, 
with every character of which he was as familiar 
as with the brilliant groups that at this moment 
filled the saloons of Madame De R d. 


CHAPTER III. 

The image of Edith Millbank was the last 
thought of Coningsby, as he sank into an agi- 
tated slumber. To him had hitherto in general 
been accorded the precious boon of dreamless 
sleep. Homer tells us these phantasmas come 
from Jove ; they are rather the children of a dis- 
tracted soul. Coningsby this night lived much 
in past years, varied by painful perplexities of the 
present, which he could neither subdue nor com- 
prehend. The scene flitted from Eton to the 
castle of his grandfather; and then he found him- 
self among the pictures of the Rue de Tronchet, 
but their owner bore the features of the senior 
Millbank. A beautiful countenance that was al- 
ternately the face in the mysterious picture, and 
then that of Edith, haunted him under all circum- 
stances. He woke little refreshed ; restless, and 
yet sensible of some secret joy. 

He woke to think of her of whom he had 
dreamed. The light had dawned on his soul. 
Coningsby loved. 

Ah ! what is that ambition that haunts our 
youth — that thirst for power or that lust of fame 
that forces us from obscurity into the sunblaze of 
the world — what are these sentiments so high, so 
vehement, so ennobling ? They vanish, and in an 
instant, before the glance of a woman ! 

Coningsby had scarcely quitted her side the 
preceding eve. He hung upon the accents of that 
clear sweet voice, and sought, with tremulous 
fascination, the gleaming splendor of those soft 
dark eyes. And now he sat in his chamber, with 
his eyes fixed upon vacancy. All thoughts and 
feelings, pursuits, desires, life, merge in one ab- 
sorbing sentiment. 

It is impossible to exist without seeing her 
again, and instantly. He had requested and 
gained permission to call on Lady Wallinger ; he 
would not lose a moment in availing himself of it. 
As early as was tolerably decorous, and before, 
in all probability, they could quit their hotel, Con- 
ingsby repaired to the Rue de Rivoli to pay his 
respects to his new friends. 

As he walked along, he indulged in fanciful 
speculations which connected Edith with the mys- 


terious portrait of his mother. He felt himself, 
as it were, near the fulfilment of some fate, and 
on the threshold of some critical discovery. He 
recalled the impatient, even alarmed, expressions 
of Rigby at Montem six years ago, when he pro- 
posed to invite young Millbank to his grand- 
father’s dinner ; the vindictive feud that existed 
between the two families, and for which political 
opinion, or even party passion, could not satis- 
factorily account ; and he reasoned himself into a 
conviction, that the solution of many perplexities 
was at hand, and that all would be consummated 
to the satisfaction of every one, by his unexpected 
but inevitable agency. 

Coningsby found Sir Joseph alone. The wor- 
thy Baronet was, at any rate, no participator in 
Mr. Millbank’s vindictive feelings against Lord 
Monmouth. On the contrary, he had a very high 
respect for a Marquess, whatever might be his 
opinions, and no mean consideration for a Mar- 
quess’s grandson. Sir Joseph had inherited a 
large fortune made by commerce, and had in- 
creased it by the same means. He was a middle- 
class Whig, had faithfully supported that party 
in his native town during the days they wandered 
in the wilderness, and had well earned his share 
of the milk and honey when they vanquished the 
promised land. In the spring-tide of Liberalism, 
when the world was not analytical of free opin- 
ions, and odious distinctions were not drawn be- 
tween Finality men and progressive Reformers, 
Mr. Wallinger had been the popular leader of a 
powerful body of his fellow-citizens, who had re- 
turned him to the first Reformed Parliament, and 
where, in spite of many a menacing Registration, 
he had contrived to remain. He had never given 
a Radical vote without the permission of the Sec- 
retary of the Treasury, and was not afraid of 
giving an unpopular one to serve his friends. He 
was not like that distinguished Liberal, who, after 
dining with the late Whig Premier, expressed his 
gratification and his gratitude, by assuring his 
Lordship that he might count on his support on 
all popular questions. 

“ I want men who will support the govern- 
ment on all unpopular questions,” replied the 
witty statesman. 

Mr. Wallinger was one of these men. His 
high character and strong purse were always in 
the front rank in the hour of danger. His sup- 
port in the House was limited to his votes ; but 
in other places equally important, at a meeting 
at a political club, or in Downing Street, he could 
find his tongue, take what is called a “ practical ” 
view of a question, adopt what is called an “ in- 
dependent tone,” reanimate confidence in minis- 
ters, check mutiny, and set a bright and bold 
example to the wavering. A man of his property, 
and high character, and sound views, so practical 
and so independent — this was evidently the 
block from which a Baronet should be cut, and 
in due time he figured Sir Joseph. 

A Spanish gentleman of ample means, and 
of a good Catalan family, flying during a political 
convulsion to England, arrived with his two 
daughters at Liverpool, and bore letters of in- 
troduction to the house of Wallinger. Some 
little time after this, by one of those stormy 
vicissitudes of political fortune, of late years not 
unusual in the Peninsula, he returned to his 


108 


CONINGSBY. 


native country, and left his children, and the 
management of that portion of his fortune that 
he had succeeded in bringing with him, under 
the guardianship of the father of the present 
Sir Joseph. This gentleman was about again to 
become an exile, when he met with an untimely 
end in one of those terrible tumults of which 
Barcelona is the frequent scene. 

The younger Wallinger was touched by the 
charms of one of his father’s wards. Her beauty, 
of a character to which he was unaccustomed, 
her accomplishments of society, and the refine- 
ment of her manners, conspicuous in the circle 
in which he lived, captivated him ; and though 
they had no heir, the union had been one of great 
felicity. Sir Joseph was proud of his wife ; he 
secretly considered himself, though his “ tone ” 
was as liberal and independent as in old days, to 
be on the threshold of aristocracy, and was con- 
scious that Lady Wallinger played her part not 
unworthily in the elevated circles in which they 
now frequently found themselves. Sir Joseph 
was fond of great people, and not averse to 
travel ; because bearing a title, and being a 
member of the British Parliament, and always 
moving with the appendages of wealth, servants, 
carriages, and couriers, and fortified with no lack 
of letters from the Foreign Office, he was every- 
where acknowledged, and received, and treated 
as a personage ; was invited to court-balls, dined 
with ambassadors, and found himself and his lady 
at every festival of distinction. 

The elder Millbank had been Joseph Wallin- 
ger’s youthful friend. Different as were their 
dispositions and the rate of their abilities, their 
political opinions were the same; and commerce 
habitually connected their interests. During a 
visit to Liverpool, Millbank had made the ac- 
quaintance of the sister of Lady Wallinger, and 
had been a successful suitor for her hand. This 
lady was the mother of Edith and of the school- 
fellow of Coningsby. It was only within a very 
few years that she had died ; she had scarcely 
lived long enough to complete the education of 
her daughter, to whom she was devoted, and on 
whom she lavished the many accomplishments 
that she possessed. Lady Wallinger having no 
children, and being very fond of her niece, had 
watched over Edith with infinite solicitude, and 
finally had persuaded Mr. Millbank that it would 
be well that his daughter should accompany 
them in their somewhat extensive travels. It 
was not, therefore, only that nature had devel- 
oped a beautiful woman out of a bashful girl 
6ince Coningsby ’s visit to Millbank ; but really, 
every means and every opportunity that could 
contribute to render an individual capable of 
adorning the most accomplished circles of life, 
had naturally, and without effort, fallen to the 
fortunate lot of the manufacturer’s daughter. 
Edith possessed an intelligence equal to those 
occasions. Without losing the native simplicity 
of her character, which sprang from the heart, 
and which the strong and original bent of her 
father’s mind had fostered, she had imbibed all 
the refinement and facility of the polished circles 
in which she moved. She had a clear head, a 
fine taste, and a generous spirit ; had received so 
much admiration, that, though by no means in- 
sensible to homage, her heart w r as free ; was 


strongly attached to her family; and, notwith- 
standing all the splendor of Rome, and the bril- 
liancy of Paris, her thoughts were often in her 
Saxon valley, amid the green hills and busy fac- 
tories of Millbank. 

Sir Joseph, finding himself alone with the 
grandson of Lord Monmouth, was not very anx- 
ious that the ladies should immediately appear. 
He thought this a very good opportunity of get- 
ting at what are called “ the real feelings of the 
Tory party ; ” and he began to pump with a seduc- 
tive semblance of frankness. For his part, he 
had never doubted that a Conservative govern- 
ment was ultimately inevitable ; had told Lord 
John so two years ago, and, between themselves, 
Lord John was of the same opinion. The pres- 
ent position of the Whigs was the necessary 
fate of all progressive parties ; could not see ex- 
actly how it would end ; thought sometimes it 
must end in a fusion of parties ; but could not 
well see how that could be brought about, at 
least, at present. For his part, should be very 
happy to witness an union of the best men of all 
parties, for the preservation of peace and order, 
without any reference to any particular opinions. 
And, in that sense of the word, it was not at all 
impossible he might find it his duty some day to 
support a Conservative government. 

Sir Joseph was very much astonished wdien 
Coningsby, who being somewhat impatient for the 
entrance of the ladies was rather more abrupt 
than his wont, told the worthy Baronet that he 
looked upon a government without distinct prin- 
ciples of policy as only a stop-gap to a wide-spread 
and demoi’alising anarchy ; that he for one could 
not comprehend how a free government could en- 
dure without national opinions to uphold it ; and 
that governments for the preservation of peace 
and order, and nothing else, had better be sought 
in China, or among the Austrians, the Chinese of 
Europe. As for Conseiwative government, the 
natural question was, What do you mean to con- 
serve ? Do you mean to conserve things or only 
names, realities or merely appearances ? Or, do 
you mean to continue the system commenced in 
1834, and, with a hypocritical reverence for the 
principles, and a superstitious adhesion to the 
forms, of the old exclusive constitution, carry on 
your policy by latitudinarian practice ? 

Sir Joseph stared; it was the first time that 
any inkling of the views of the New Generation 
had caught his ear. They were strange and un- 
accustomed accents. He was extremely per- 
plexed; could by no means make out what his 
companion was driving at; at length, with a 
rather knowing smile, expressive as much of 
compassion as comprehension, he remarked — 

“ Ah ! I see ; you are a regular Orangeman.” 

“ I look upon an Orangeman,” said Coningsby, 
“as a pure Whig; the only professor and prac- 
tiser of unadulterated Whiggism.” 

This was too much for Sir Joseph, w r hose po- 
litical knowledge did not reach much further 
back than the ministry of the Mediocrities ; hard- 
ly touched the times of the Corresponding So- 
ciety. But he was a cautious man, and never 
replied in haste. He was about feeling his way, 
when he experienced the golden advantage of 
gaining time, for the ladies entered. 

The heart of Coningsby throbbed as Edith ap- 


MORNING VISITS TO EDITH MILLBANK. 


109 


peared. She extended to him her hand ; her face 
radiant with kind expression. Lady Wallinger 
seemed gratified also by his visit. She had much 
elegance in her manner ; a calm, soft address ; 
and she spoke English with a sweet Doric irregu- 
larity. They all sat down, talked of the last 
night’s ball, of a thousand things. There was 
something animating in the frank, cheerful spirit 
of Edith. She had a quick eye both for the beau- 
tiful and the ridiculous, and threw out her obser- 
vations in terse and vivid phrases. An hour, and 
more than an hour, passed away, and Coningsby 
still found some excuse not to depart. It seemed 
that on this morning they were about to make an 
expedition into the antique city of Pai'is, to visit 
some old hotels which retained their character ; 
especially they had heard much of the hotel of 
the Archbishop of Sens, with its fortified court- 
yard. Coningsby expressed great interest in the 
subject, and showed some knowledge. Sir Joseph 
invited him to join the party, which of all things 
in the world was what he most desired. 


CHAPTER IV. 

Not a day elapsed without Coningsby being 
in the company of Edith. Time was precious for 
him, for the spires and pinnacles of Cambridge 
already began to loom in the distance, and he re- 
solved to make the most determined efforts not 
to lose a day of his liberty. And yet to call 
every morning in the Rue de Rivoli was an ex- 
ploit which surpassed even the audacity of love ! 
More than once, making the attempt, his courage 
failed him, and he turned into the gardens of the 
Tuileries, and only watched the windows of the 
house. Circumstances, however, favored him; 
he received a letter from Oswald Millbank; he 
was bound to communicate in person this evi- 
dence of his friend’s existence ; and when he had 
to reply to the letter, he must necessarily inquire 
whether his friend’s relatives had any message 
to transmit to him. These, however, were only 
slight advantages. What assisted Coningsby in 
his plans and wishes was the great pleasure wliich 
Sidonia, with whom he passed a great deal of his 
time, took in the society of the Wallingers and 
their niece. Sidonia presented Lady Wallinger 
with his opera-box during her stay at Paris ; in- 
vited them very frequently to his agreeable din- 
ner-parties ; and announced his determination to 
give a ball, which Lady Wallinger esteemed a 
delicate attention to Edith; while Lady Mon- 
mouth flattered herself that the festival sprang 
from the desire she had expressed of seeing the 
celebrated hotel of Sidonia to advantage. 

Coningsby was very happy. His morning 
visits to the Rue de Rivoli seemed always wel- 
come, and seldom an evening elapsed in which he 
did not find himself in the society of Edith. She 
seemed not to wish to conceal that his presence 
gave her pleasure, and though she had many ad- 
mirers, and bad an airy graciousness for all of 
them, Coningsby sometimes indulged the exqui- 
site suspicion that there was a flattering distinc- 
tion in her carriage to himself. Under the influ- 
ence of these feelings, he began daily to be more 


conscious that separation would be an intolerable 
calamity ; he began to meditate upon the feasi- 
bility of keeping a half term, and of postponing 
his departure to Cambridge, to a period nearer 
the time when Edith would probably return to 
England. 

In the meanwhile, the Parisian world talked 
much of the grand fete which was about to be 
given by Sidonia. Coningsby heard much of it one 
day when dining at his grandfather’s. Lady Mon- 
mouth seemed very intent on the occasion. Even 
Lord Monmouth half talked of going, though, for 
his part, he wished people would come to him, 
and never ask him to their houses. That was his 
idea of society. He liked the world, but he liked 
to find it under his own roof. He grudged them 
nothing, so that they would not insist on the re- 
ciprocity of cold-catching, and would eat his good 
dinners, instead of insisting on his eating their 
bad ones. 

“ But Monsieur Sidonia’s cook is a gem, they 
say,” observed an Attache of an embassy. 

“I have no doubt of it; Sidonia is a man of 
sense, almost the only man of sense I know. I 
never caught him tripping. He never makes a 
false move. Sidonia is exactly the sort of man I 
like ; you know you cannot deceive him and that 
he does not want to deceive you. I wish he liked 
a rubber more. Then he would be perfect.” 

“ They say he is going to be married,” said 
the Attache. 

“ Poh ! ” said Lord Monmouth. 

“Married!” exclaimed Lady Monmouth. 
“ To whom ? ” 

“ To your beautiful countrywoman, ‘ la belle 
Anglaise ’ that all the world talks of,” said the 
Attache. 

“ And who may she be, pray ? ” said the Mar- 
quess. “ I have so many beautiful countrywomen.” 

“Mademoiselle Millbank,” said the Attache. 

“ Millbank ! ” said the Marquess, with a lower- 
ing brow. “There are so many Millbanks. Do 
you know what Millbank this is, Harry ? ” he in- 
quired of his grandson, who had listened to the 
conversation w r ith a rather embarrassed, and even 
agitated spirit. 

“ What, sir — yes — Millbank ? ” said Coningsby. 

“ I say, do you know who this Millbank is ? ” 

“ Oh ! Miss Millbank : yes, I believe, that is, 
I know a daughter of the — the gentleman who 
purchased some property near you.” 

“Oh! that fellow! Has he got a daughter 
here ? ” 

“ The most beautiful girl in Paris,” said the 
Attache. 

“ Lady Monmouth, have you seen this beauty 
— that Sidonia is going to marry ? ” he added, 
with a fiendish laugh. 

“ I have seen the young lady,” said Lady 
Monmouth ; “ but I have not heard that Monsieur 
Sidonia was about to marry her.” 

“Is she so very beautiful?” inquired another 
gentleman. 

“ Yes,” said Lady Monmouth, calm, but very 
pale. 

“ Poh ! ” said the Marquess again. 

“ I assure you that it is a fact,” said the At- 
tache, “ not at least an on-dit. I have it from a 
quarter that could not well be mistaken.” 

Behold a little snatch of ordinary dinner gos* 


110 


CONINGSBY. 


sip that left a very painful impression on the 
minds of three individuals who were present. 

The name of Millbank revived in Lord Mon- 
mouth’s mind a sense of defeat, discomfiture, and 
disgust ; Hellingsley, lost elections, and Mr. Rig- 
by ; three subjects which Lord Monmouth had 
succeeded for a time in expelling from his sensa- 
tions. His Lordship thought that, in all probabil- 
ity, this beauty of whom they spoke so highly 
was not really the daughter of his foe ; that it 
was some confusion which had arisen from the 
similarity of names : nor did he believe that Sido- 
nia was going to marry her, whoever she might 
be ; but a variety of things had been said at din- 
ner, and a number of images had been raised in 
his mind that touched his spleen. He took his 
wine freely, and, the usual consequence of that 
proceeding with Lord Monmouth, became silent 
and sullen. As for Lady Monmouth, she had 
learnt that Sidonia, whatever might be the result, 
was paying very marked attention to another 
woman, for whom undoubtedly he was giving that 
very ball which she had flattered herself was a 
homage to her wishes, and for which she had 
projected a new dress of eclipsing splendor. 

Coningsby felt quite sure that the story of 
Sidonia’s marriage with Edith was the most ridic- 
ulous idea that ever entered into the imagination 
of man ; at least he thought he felt quite sure. 
But the idlest and wildest report that the woman 
you love is about to marry another is not com 
fortable. Besides, he could not conceal from 
himself that, between the Wallingers and Sidonia 
there existed a remarkable intimacy, fully ex- 
tended to their niece. He had seen her certainly 
on more than one occasion in lengthened and ap- 
parently earnest conversation with Sidonia, who, 
by the bye, spoke with her often in Spanish, and 
never concealed his admiration of her charms or 
the interest he found in her society. And Edith — 
what, after all, had passed between Edith and 
himself which should at all gainsay this report, 
which he had been particularly assured was not a 
mere report, but came from a quarter that could 
not well be mistaken ? She had received him 
with kindness. And how should she receive one 
who was the friend and preserver of her only 
brother, and apparently the intimate and cher- 
ished acquaintance of her future husband ? Con- 
ingsby felt that sickness of the heart that accom- 
panies one’s first misfortune. The illusions of 
life seemed to dissipate and disappear. He was 
miserable ; he had no confidence in himself, in his 
future. After all, what was he? A dependent 
on a man of very absolute will and passions. 
Could he forget the glance with which Lord Mon- 
mouth caught the name of Millbank, and received 
the intimation of Hellingsley ? It was a glance 
for a Spagnoletto or a Caravaggio to catch and im- 
mortalise. Why, if Edith were not going to mar- 
ry Sidonia, how was he ever to marry her, even 
if she cared for him ? Oh ! what a future of un- 
broken, continuous, interminable misery awaited 
him! Was there ever yet born a being with a 
destiny so dark and dismal ? He was the most 
forlorn of men, utterly wretched ! He had entire- 
ly mistaken his own character. He had no ener- 
gy, no abilities, not a single eminent quality. All 
was over ! 


CHAPTER Y. 

It was fated that Lady Monmouth should not 
be present at that ball, the anticipation of which 
had occasioned her so much pleasure and some 
pangs. 

On the morning after that slight conversation, 
which had so disturbed the souls, though uncon- 
sciously to each other, of herself and Coningsby, 
the Marquess was driving Lucretia up the avenue 
Marigny in his phaeton. About the centre of the 
avenue the horses took fright, and started off at 
a wild pace. The Marquess was an experienced 
whip, calm, and with exertion still very powerful. 
He would have soon mastered the horses, had 
not one of the reins unhappily broken. The 
horses swerved ; the Marquess kept his seat ; 
Lucretia, alarmed, sprang up, the carriage was 
dashed against the trunk of a tree, and she was 
thrown out of it, at the very instant that one of 
the outriders had succeeded in heading the equi- 
page and checking the horses. 

The Marchioness was senseless. Lord Mon- 
mouth had descended from the phaeton ; several 
passengers had assembled ; the door of a com 
tiguous house was opened ; there were offers of 
service, sympathy, inquiries, a babble of tongues, 
great confusion. 

“ Get surgeons and send for her maid,” said 
Lord Monmouth to one of his servants. 

In the midst of this distressing tumult, Si- 
donia on horseback followed by a groom, cams 
up the avenue from the Champs Elysees. The 
empty phaeton, reins broken, horses held by 
strangers, all the appearances of a misadventure, 
attracted him. He recognised the livery. He 
instantly dismounted. Moving aside the crowd, 
he perceived Lady Monmouth senseless and pros- 
trate, and her husband, without assistance, re- 
straining the injudicious efforts of the bystanders. 

“ Let us carry her in, Lord Monmouth,” said 
Sidonia, exchanging a recognition as he took 
Lucretia in his arms, and bore her into the dwell- 
ing that was at hand. Those who were standing 
at the door assisted him. The woman of the 
house and Lord Monmouth only were present. 

“ I would hope there is no fracture,” said 
Sidonia, placing her on a sofa, “ nor does it ap- 
pear to me that the percussion of the head, 
though considerable, could have been fatally 
violent. I have caught her pulse. Keep her in 
a horizontal position, and she will soon come to 
herself.” 

The Marquess seated himself in a chair by the 
side of the sofa which Sidonia had advanced to 
the middle of the room. Lord Monmouth was 
silent and very serious. Sidonia opened the 
window, and touched the brow of Lucretia with 
water. At this moment M. Villebecque and a 
surgeon entered the chamber. 

“The brain cannot be affected, with that 
pulse,” said the surgeon ; “ there is no fracture.” 

“ How pale she is ! ” said Lord Monmouth, as 
if he were examining a picture. 

“ The color seems to me to return,” said Si- 
donia. 

The surgeon applied some restoratives which 
he had brought with him. The face of the 
Marchioness showed signs of life ; she stirred. 


ACCIDENT TO LADY MONMOUTH. 


Ill 


“ She revives,” said the surgeon. 

The Marchioness breathed with some force ; 
again ; then half-opened her eyes, and then in- 
stantly closed them. 

“ If I could but get her to take this draught,” 
said the surgeon. 

“ Stop ! — moisten her lips first,” said Sidonia. 

They placed the draught to her mouth ; in a 
moment she put forth her hand as if to repress 
them, then opened her eyes again, and sighed. 

“ She is herself,” said the surgeon. 

“ Lucretia ! ” said the Marquess. 

“ Sidonia ! ” said the Marchioness. 

Lord Monmouth looked round to invite his 
friend to come forward. 

“ Lady Monmouth ! ” said Sidonia, in a gentle 
voice. 

She started, rose a little on the sofa, stared 
around her. “ Where am I ? ” she exclaimed. 

“ With me,” said the Marquess ; and he bent 
forward to her, and took her hand. 

“ Sidonia ! ” she again exclaimed, in a voice 
of inquiry. 

v“Is here,” said Lord Monmouth. “He car- 
ried you in after our accident.” 

“ Accident ! Why is he going to marry ? ” 

The Marquess took a pinch of snuff. 

There was an awkward pause in the chamber. 

“ I think now,” said Sidonia to the surgeon, 
“ that Lady Monmouth would take the draught.” 

She refused it. 

“ Try you, Sidonia,” said the Marquess, rather 
drily. 

“ You feel yourself again ? ” said Sidonia, ad- 
vancing. 

“Would I did not!” said the Marchioness, 
with an air of stupor. “ What has happpened ? 
Why am I here ? Are you married ? ” 

“ She wanders a little,” said Sidonia. 

The Marquess took another pinch of snuff. 

“ I could have borne even repulsion,” said 
Lady Monmouth, in a voice of desolation, “but 
not for another ! ” 

“ M. Villebecque ! ” said the Marquess. 

“ My Lord ? ” 

Lord Monmouth looked at him w T ith that irre- 
sistible scrutiny which would daunt a galley-slave ; 
and then, after a short pause, said, “ The carriage 
should have arrived by this time. Let us get 
home.” 


CHAPTER VI. 

After the conversation at dinner which we 
have noticed, the restless and disquieted Conings- 
by wandered about Paris, vainly seeking in the 
distraction of a great city some relief from the 
excitement of his mind. His first resolution was 
immediately to depart for England ; but when, on 
reflection, he was mindful that, after all, the as- 
sertion which had so agitated him might really be 
without foundation, in spite of many circum- 
stances that to his regardful fancy seemed to ac- 
credit it, his firm resolution began to waver. 

These were the first pangs of jealousy that 
Coningsby had ever experienced, and they re- 
vealed to him the immensity of the stake which he 
was hazarding on a most uncertain die. 


The next morning he called in the Rue Rivoli, 
and was informed that the family were not at 
home. He was returning under the arcades, tow- 
ards the Rue St. Florentin, when Sidonia passed 
him in an opposite direction, on horseback, and at 
a rapid rate. Coningsby, who was not observed 
by him, could not resist a strange temptation to 
watch for a moment his progress. He saw him 
enter the court of the Hotel where the Wallinger 
family were staying. Would he come forth im- 
mediately ? No. Coningsby stood still and pale. 
Minute followed minute. Coningsby flattered 
himself that Sidonia w r as only speaking to the 
porter. Then he would fain believe Sidonia was 
writing a note. Then, crossing the street, he 
mounted by some steps the terrace of the Tuil- 
eries, nearly opposite the Hotel of the Minister 
of Finance, and watched the house. A quarter 
of an hour elapsed ; Sidonia did not come forth. 
They were at home to him ; only to him. Sick at 
heart, infinitely wretched, scarcely able to guide 
his steps, dreading even to meet an acquaintance, 
and almost feeling that his tongue would refuse 
the office of conversation, he contrived to reach 
his grandfather’s hotel, and was about to bury 
himself in his chamber, when on the staircase 
he met Flora. 

Coningsby had not seen her for the last fort- 
night. Seeing her now, his heart smote him for 
his neglect, excusable as it really was. Any one 
else at this time, he would have hurried by with- 
out recognition, but the gentle and suffering Flora 
was too meek to be rudely treated by so kind a 
heart as Coningsby’s. 

He looked at her; she was pale and agitated. 
Her step trembled, while she still hastened 
on. 

“ What is the matter ? ” inquired Coningsby. 

“ My Lord — the Marchioness — are in danger, 
thrown from their carriage.” Briefly she detailed 
to Coningsby all that had occurred ; that M. Ville- 
becque had already repaired to them ; that she 
herself only this moment had learned the intelli- 
gence that seemed to agitate her to the centre. 
Coningsby instantly turned w r ith her; but they 
had scarcely emerged from the court-yard when 
the carriage approached that brought Lord and 
Lady Monmouth home. They followed it into 
the court. They w r ere immediately at its door. 

“All is right, Harry,” said the Marquess, calm 
and grave. 

Coningsby pressed his grandfather’s hand. 
Then he assisted Lucretia to alight. 

“ I am quite well,” she said, “ now.” 

“ But you must lean on me, dearest Lady Mon- 
mouth,” Coningsby said, in a tone of great ten- 
derness, as he felt Lucretia almost sinking from 
him. And he supported her into the hall of the 
hotel. 

Lord Monmouth had lingered behind. Flora 
crept up to him, and with unwonted boldness of- 
fered her arm to the Marquess. He looked at 
her with a glance of surprise, and then a softer 
expression, one indeed of an almost winning 
sweetness, which, though rare, was not a stranger 
to his countenance, melted his features, and tak- 
ing the arm so humbly presented, he said — 

“ Ma Petite, you look more frightened than 
any of us. Poor child ! ” 

He had reached the top of the flight of steps ; 


112 


CONINGSBY. 


lie withdrew his arm from Flora, and thanked her 
with all his courtesy. 

“ You arc not hurt, then, sir ? ” she ventured 
to ask with a look that expressed the infinite 
solicitude which her tongue did not venture to 
convey. 

“ By no means, my good little girl; ” and he 
extended his hand to her, which she reverently 
bent over and embraced. 


CHAPTER VII. 

When Coningsby had returned to his grand- 
father’s hotel that morning, it was w r ith a deter- 
mination to leave Paris the next day for England, 
but the accident to Lady Monmouth, though, as 
it ultimately appeared, accompanied by no very 
serious consequences, quite dissipated this inten- 
tion. It was impossible to quit them so crudely 
at such a moment. So he remained another day, 
and that was the day preceding Sidonia’s fete, 
which he particularly resolved not to attend. He 
felt it quite impossible that he could again endure 
the sight of either Sidonia or Edith. He looked 
upon them as persons who had deeply injured 
him ; though they really were individuals who 
had treated him with invariable kindness. But 
he felt their existence was a source of mortifica- 
tion and misery to him. With these feelings, 
sauntering away the last hours at Paris, dis- 
quited, uneasy ; no present, no future; no enjoy- 
ment, no hope ; really, positively, undeniably un- 
happy ; unhappy too for the first time in his life ; 
the first unhappiness — what a companion piece 
for the first love; Coningsby, of all places in the 
world, in the gardens of the Luxembourg, en- 
countered Sir Joseph Wallinger and Edith. 

To avoid them was impossible ; they met face 
to face; and Sir Joseph stopped, and immediately 
reminded him that it was three days since they 
had seen him, as if to reproach him for so unpre- 
cedented a neglect. And it seemed that Edith, 
though she said not as much, felt the same. And 
Coningsby turned round and walked with them. 
He told them he was going to leave Paris on the 
morrow. 

“ And miss Monsieur de Sidonia’s fete, of 
which we have all talked so much !” said Edith, 
with unaffected surprise, and an expression of 
disappointment which she in vain attempted to 
conceal. 

“The festival will not be les3 gay for my ab- 
sence,” said Coningsby, with that plaintive mo- 
roseness not unusual to despairing lovers. 

“ If we were all to argue from the same pre- 
mises, and act accordingly,” said Edith, “ the 
saloons would be empty. But if any person’s 
absence would be remarked, I should really have 
thought it would be yours. I thought you were 
one of Monsieur de Sidonia’s great friends ?” 

“He has no friends,” said Coningsby. “No 
wise man has. What are friends ? Traitors.” 

Edith looked very much astonished. And 
then she said — 

“ I am sure you have not quarrelled with Mon- 
sieur de Sidonia, for we have just parted with him.” 

“ I have no doubt you have,” thought Con- 
ingsby. 


“ And it is impossible to speak of another in 
higher terras than he spoke of you. Sir Joseph 
observed how unusual it was for Monsieur de Si- 
donia to express himself so warmly.” 

“ Sidonia is a great man, and carries every- 
thing before him,” said Coningsby. “ I am noth- 
ing ; I cannot cope with him ; I retire from the 
field.” 

“ What field ? ” inquired Sir Joseph, who did 
not clearly catch the drift of these observations. 
“ It appears to me that a field for action is ex- 
actly what Sidonia wants. There is no vent for 
his abilities and intelligence. He wastes his en- 
ergy in travelling from capital to capital like a 
King’s messenger. The morning after his fete he 
is gofcig to Madrid.” 

This brought some reference to their mutual 
movements. Edith spoke of her return to Lanca- 
shire, of her hope that Mr. Coningsby would soon 
see Oswald; but Mr. Coningsby informed her 
that though he was going to leave Paris, he had 
no intention of returning to England ; that he had 
not yet quite made up his mind whether he should 
go ; but thought that he should travel direct to 
St. Petersburg!]. He wished to travel overland 
to Astrachan. That was the place he was par- 
ticularly anxious to Visit. 

After this incomprehensible announcement, 
they walked on for some minutes in silence, 
broken only by occasional monosyllables with 
which Coningsby responded at hazard to the 
sound remarks of Sir Joseph. As they ap- 
proached the Palace, a party of English who 
were visiting the Chamber of Peers, and who 
were acquainted with the companions of Conings- 
by, encountered them. Amid the mutual recog- 
nitions, Coningsby was about to take his leave 
somewhat ceremoniously, but Edith held forth 
her hand and said — 

“ Is this indeed farewell ? ” 

His heart was agitated, his countenance 
changed ; he retained her hand amid the chatter- 
ing tourists, too full of their criticisms and their 
egotistical common-places to notice what was 
passing. A sentimental ebullition seemed to be 
on the point of taking place. Their eyes met. 
The look of Edith was mournful and inquiring. 

“We will say farewell at the ball,” said Con- 
ingsby, and she rewarded him with a radiant 
smile. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Sidonia lived in the Faubourg St. Germain, in 
a large hotel that, in old days, had belonged to 
the Crillons; but it had received at his "hands 
such extensive alterations, that nothing of the 
original decoration, and little of its arrangement, 
remained. 

A flight of marble steps, ascending from a vast 
court, led into a hall of great dimensions, which 
was at the same time an orangery and a gallerv 
of sculpture. It was illumined bv a distinct, vet 
soft and subdued, light, which harmonised with 
the beautiful repose of the surrounding forms, 
and with the exotic perfume that was wafted 
about. A gallery led from this hall to an inner 
hall of quite a different character; fantastic, glit- 


SIDONIA’S FESTIVAL. 


113 


tering, variegated; full of strange shapes and 
dazzling objects. 

The roof was carved and gilt in that honey- 
comb style prevalent in the Saracenic buildings ; 
the walls were hung with leather stamped in rich 
and vivid patterns ; the floor was a flood of mo- 
saic; about were statues of negroes of human 
size with faces of wild expression, and holding in 
their outstretched hands silver torches that blazed 
with an almost painful brilliancy. 

From this inner hall, a double staircase of 
white marble led to the grand suite of apart- 
ments. 

These saloons, lofty, spacious, and numerous, 
had been decorated principally in encaustic by 
the most celebrated artists of Munich. The three 
principal rooms were only separated from each 
other by columns, covered with rich hangings, on 
this night drawn aside. The decoration of each 
chamber was appropriate to its purpose. On the 
w r alls of the ball-room, nymphs and heroes moved 
in measure in Sicilian landscapes, or on the azure 
shores of JSgean waters. From the ceiling beau- 
tiful divinities threw garlands on the guests, who 
seemed surprised that the roses, unwilling to quit 
Olympus, would not descend on earth. The gen- 
eral effect of this fair chamber was heightened 
too by that regulation of the house which did not 
permit any benches in the ball-room. That dig- 
nified assemblage who are always found ranged 
in precise discipline against the wall, did not here 
mar the flowing grace of the festivity. The chap- 
erons had no cause to complain. A large saloon 
abounded in ottomans and easy chairs at their 
service, where their delicate charges might rest 
when weary, or find distraction when not en- 
gaged. 

All the world were at this fete of Sidonia. It 
exceeded in splendor and luxury every entertain- 
ment that had yet been given. The highest 
rank, even Princes of the blood, beauty, fashion, 
fame — all assembled in a magnificent and illumi- 
nated palace, resounding with exquisite melody. 

Coningsby, though somewhat depressed, was 
not insensible to the magic of the scene. Since 
the passage in the gardens of the Luxembourg— 
that tone — that glance — he had certainly felt 
much relieved, happier. And yet if all were, 
with regard to Sidonia, as unfounded as he could 
possibly desire, where was he then ? Had he for- 
gotten his grandfather — that fell look, that voice 
of intense detestation ? What was Millbank to 
him? Where, what was the mystery, for of 
some he could not doubt. The Spanish parentage 
of Edith had only more perplexed Coningsby. It 
offered no solution. There could be no connec- 
tion between a Catalan family and his mother, 
the daughter of a clergyman in a midland county. 
That there was any relationship between the Mill- 
bank family and his mother was contradicted by 
the conviction in which he had been brought up, 
that his mother had no relations; that she re- 
turned to England utterly friendless ; without a 
relative, a connection, an acquaintance to whom 
she could appeal. Her complete forlornness was 
stamped upon his brain. Tender as were his 
years when he was separated from her, he could 
yet recall the very phrases in which she deplored 
her isolation ; and there were numerous passages 
in her letters which alluded to it. Coningsby had 
8 


taken occasion to sound the Wallingers on this 
subject ; but he felt assured, from the manner in 
which his advances were met, that they knew 
nothing of his mother, and attributed the hostility 
of Mr. Millbank to his grandfather, solely to po- 
litical emulation and local rivalries. Still there 
were the portrait and the miniature. That was a 
fact ; a clue which ultimately, he was persuaded, 
must lead to some solution. 

Coningsby had met with great social success 
at Paris. He was at once a favorite. The 
Parisian dames decided in his favor. He was a 
specimen of the highest style of English beauty, 
which is very popular in France. His air was 
acknowledged as distinguished. The men also 
liked him ; he had not quite arrived at that age 
when you make enemies. The moment therefore 
that he found himself in the saloons of Sidonia, 
lie was accosted by many whose notice was flat- 
tering ; but his eye wandered, while he tried to 
be courteous and attempted to be sprightly. 
Where was she ? He had nearly reached the 
ball-room when he met her. She was on the arm 
of Lord Beaumanoir, who had made her acquaint- 
ance at Rome, and originally claimed it as the 
member of a family who, as the reader may per- 
haps not forget, had experienced some kindnesses 
from the Millbanks. 

There were mutual and hearty recognitions 
between the young men ; great explanations 
where they had been, what they were doing, 
where they were going. Lord Beaumanoir told 
Coningsby he had introduced steeple-chases at 
Rome, and had parted with Sunbeam to the 
nephew of a Cardinal. Coningsby securing 
Edith’s hand for the next dance, they all moved 
on together to her aunt. 

Lady Wallinger was indulging in some Roman 
reminiscences with the Marquess. 

“And you are not going to Astrachan to-mor- 
row ? ” said Edith. 

“Not to-morrow,” said Coningsby. 

“You know that you said once that life was 
too stirring in these days to permit travel to a 
man ? ” 

“ I wish nothing was stirring,” said Con- 
ingsby. “ I wish nothing to change. All that I 
wish is, that this fete should never end.” 

“ Is it possible that you can be capricious ? 
You perplex me very much.” 

“ Am I capricious because I dislike change ? ” 

“ But Astrachan ? ” 

“ It was the air of the Luxembourg that re- 
minded me of the Desert,” said Coningsby. 

Soon after this Coningsby led Edith to the 
dance. It was at a ball that he had first met 
her at Paris, and this led to other reminiscences ; 
all most interesting. Coningsby was perfectly 
happy. All mysteries, all difficulties, were driven 
from his recollection ; he lived only in the excit- 
ing and enjoyable present. Twenty-one and in 
love ! 

Some time after this, Coningsby, who was 
inevitably separated from Edith, met his host. 

“ Where have you been, child,” said Sidonia, 
“ that I have not seen you for some days ? Iam 
going to Madrid to-morrow.” 

“And I must think, I suppose, of Cam- 
bridge.” 

“Well, you have seen something; you will 


114 


CONINGSBY. 


find it more profitable when you have digested 
it; and you will have opportunity. That’s the 
true spring of wisdom ; meditate over the past. 
Adventure and Contemplation share our being 
like day and night.” 

The resolute departure for England on the 
morrow had already changed into a supposed ne- 
cessity of thinking of returning to Cambridge. 
In fact, Coningsby felt that to quit Paris and Edith 
was an impossibility. He silenced the remon- 
strance of his conscience by the expedient of 
keeping a half-term ; and had no difficulty in per- 
suading himself that a short delay in taking 
his degree could not really be of the slightest 
consequence. 

It was the hour for supper. The guests at a 
French ball are not seen to advantage at this pe- 
riod. The custom of separating the sexes for 
this refreshment, and arranging that the ladies 
should partake of it by themselves, though ori- 
ginally founded in a feeling of consideration and 
gallantry, and with the determination to secure, 
under all circumstances, the convenience and 
comfort of the fair sex, is really, in its appear- 
ance and its consequences, anything but Europe- 
an, and produces a scene which rather reminds 
one of the harem of a sultan than a hall of chiv- 
alry. To judge from the countenances of the fa- 
vored fair, they are not themselves particularly 
pleased ; and when their repast is over, they ne- 
cessarily return to empty halls, and are deprived 
of the dance at the very moment when they may 
feel most inclined to participate in its graceful 
excitement. 

These somewhat ungracious circumstances, 
however, were not attendant on the festival of 
this night. There was opened in the hotel of 
Sidonia for the first time a banqueting-room 
which could contain with convenience all the 
guests. It was a vast chamber of white marble, 
the golden panels of the walls containing festive 
sculptures by Schwanthaler, relieved by encaustic 
tinting. In its centre was a fountain, a group of 
Bacchantes encircling Dionysos ; and from this 
fountain, as from a star, diverged the various ta- 
bles from which sprang orange-trees in fruit and 
flower. 

The banquet had but one fault; Coningsby 
was separated from Edith. The Duchess of 
Grand Cairo, the beautiful wife of the heir 
of one of the Imperial illustrations, had de- 
termined to appropriate Coningsby as her cava- 
lier for the moment. Distracted, he made his es- 
cape ; but his wandering eye could not find the 
object of its search ; and he fell prisoner to the 
charming Princess De Petitpoix, a Carlist Chief- 
tain, whose witty words avenged the cause of 
fallen dynasties and a cashiered nobility. 

Behold a scene brilliant in fancy, magnificent 
in splendor ! All the circumstances of his life 
at this moment were such as acted forcibly on 
the imagination of Coningsby. Separated from 
Edith, he had still the delight of seeing her, the 
paragon of that bright company, the consummate 
being whom he adored ! And who had spoken to 
him in a voice sweeter than a serenade, and had 
bestowed on him a glance softer than moonlight ! 
The lord of the palace, more distinguished even 
for his capacity than his boundless treasure, was 
his chosen friend ; gained under circumstances 


of romantic interest, when the reciprocal influ- 
ence of their personal qualities was affected by 
no accessory knowledge of their worldly posi- 
tions. He himself was in the very bloom of 
youth and health ; the child of a noble house, 
rich for his present wants, and with a future of 
considerable fortunes. Entrancing love and daz- 
zling friendship, a high ambition and the pride of 
knowdedge, the consciousness of a great prosper- 
ity, the vague, daring energies of the high pulse 
of twenty-one, all combined to stimulate his 
sense of existence, which, as he looked around 
him at the beautiful objects and listened to the 
delicious sounds, seemed to him a dispensation 
of almost supernatural ecstasy. % 

About an after this, the ball-room still full, 
but the other saloons gradually emptying, Con- 
ingsby entered a chamber which seemed deserted. 
Yet he heard sounds as it were of earnest con- 
versation. It was a voice that invited his prog- 
ress ; he advanced another step, then suddenly 
stopped. There were two individuals in the 
room, by whom he was unnoticed. They were 
Sidonia and Miss Millbank. They were sit- 
ting on a sofa, Sidonia holding her hand and 
endeavoring, as it seemed, to soothe her. Her 
tones were tremulous ; but the expression of her 
face was fond and confiding. It was all the work 
of a moment. Coningsby instantly withdrew, yet 
could not escape hearing an earnest request from 
Edith to her companion that he would write to her. 

In a few seconds Coningsby had quitted the 
hotel of Sidonia, and the next day found him on 
his road to England. 


BOOK VII. 

CHAPTER I. 

It was one of those gorgeous and enduring 
sunsets that seem to linger as if they wished to 
celebrate the mid-period of the year. Perhaps 
the beautiful hour of impending twilight never 
exercises a more effective influence on the soul 
than when it descends on the aspect of some dis- 
tant and splendid city. What a contrast between 
the serenity and repose of our own bosoms and 
the fierce passions and destructive cares girt in 
the walls of that multitude whose domes and 
towers rise in purple lustre against the resplen- 
dent horizon ! 

And yet the disturbing emotions of existence 
and the bitter inheritance of humanity should 
exercise but a modified sway, and entail but a 
light burden, within the circle of the city into 
which the next scene of our history leads us. 
For it is the sacred city of study, of learning, and 
of faith ; and the declining beam is resting on the 
dome of the Radcliffe, lingering on the towers of 
Christchurch and Magdalen, sanctifying the spires 
and pinnacles of holy St. Mary’s. 

A young Oxonian, who had for some time 
been watching the city in the sunset, from a ris- 
ing ground in its vicinity, lost, as it would seem, 
in meditation, suddenly rose, and looking at his 
watch, as if remindful of some engagement, hast- 
ened his return at a rapid pace. He reached the 


DISAPPOINTMENT. 


115 


High Street as the Blenheim light post coach 
dashed up to the Star Hotel, with that brilliant 
precision which even the new generation can re- 
member, and yet which already ranks among the 
traditions of English manners. A peculiar and 
most animating spectacle used to be the arrival 
of a first-rate light coach in a country town ! The 
small machine, crowded with so many passengers, 
the foaming and curvetting leaders, the wheelers 
more steady and glossy, as if they had not done 
their ten miles in the hour, the triumphant bugle 
of the guard, and the haughty routine with which 
the driver, as he reached his goal, threw his whip 
to the obedient ostlers in attendance ; and, not 
least, the staring crowd, a little awe-struck, and 
looking for the moment at the lowest official of 
the stable with considerable respect, altogether 
made a picture which one recollects with cheer- 
fulness, and misses now in many a dreary market- 
town. 

Our Oxonian was a young man about the 
middle height, and naturally of a thoughtful ex- 
pression and rather reserved mien. The general 
character of his countenance was, indeed, a little 
stern, but it broke into an almost bewitching 
smile, and a blush suffused his face, as he sprang 
forward and welcomed an individual about the 
same age, who had jumped off the Blenheim. 

“Well, Coningsby!” he exclaimed, extending 
both his hands. 

“ By Jove ! my dear Millbank, we have met 
at last,” said his friend. 

And here we must for a moment revert to 
what had occurred to Coningsby since he so sud- 
denly quitted Paris at the beginning of the year. 
The wound he had received was deep to one un- 
used to wounds. Yet, after all, none had out- 
raged his feelings, no one had betrayed his hopes. 
He had loved one who had loved another. Mis- 
ery, but scarcely humiliation. And yet ’tis a bit- 
ter pang under any circumstances to find another 
preferred to yourself. It is about the same blow 
as one would probably feel if falling from a bal- 
loon. Your Icarian flight melts into a very grov- 
elling existence, scarcely superior to that of a 
sponge or a coral, or redeemed only from utter 
insensibility by your very frank detestation of 
your rival. It is quite impossible to conceal that 
Coningsby had imbibed for Sidonia a certain de- 
gree of aversion, which, in these days of exagger- 
ated phrase, might even be described as hatred. 
And Edith was so beautiful ! And there had 
seemed between them a sympathy so native and 
spontaneous, creating at once the charm of inti- 
macy without any of the disenchanting attributes 
that are occasionally its consequence. He would 
recall the tones of her voice, the expression of 
her soft dark eye, the airy spirit, and frank gra- 
ciousness, sometimes even the flattering blush, 
with which she had ever welcomed one of whom 
she had heard so long and so kindly. It seemed, 
to use a sweet and homely phrase, that they were 
made for each other; the circumstances of their 
mutual destinies might have combined into one 
enchanting fate. 

And yet, had she accorded him that peerless 
boon — her heart, with what aspect was he to 
communicate this consummation of all his hopes 
to his grandfather, ask Lord Monmouth for his 
blessing, and the gracious favor of an establish- 


ment for the daughter of his foe ; of a man whose 
name was never mentioned except to cloud his 
visage. Ah ! what was that mystery that con- 
nected the haughty house of Coningsby with the 
humble blood of the Lancashire manufacturer ? 
Why was the portrait of his mother beneath the 
roof of Millbank ? Coningsby had delicately 
touched upon the subject both with Edith and the 
Wallingers, but the result of his inquiries only 
involved the question in deeper gloom. Edith 
had none but maternal relatives : more than once 
she had mentioned this, and the Wallingers, on 
other occasions, had confirmed the remark. Con- 
ingsby had sometimes drawn the conversation to 
pictures, and he would remind her with playful- 
ness of their first unconscious meeting in the gal- 
lery of the Rue Tronchet ; then he remembered 
that Mr. Millbank was fond of pictures ; then he 
recollected some specimens of Mr. Millbank’s col- 
lection, and after touching on several which could 
not excite suspicion, he came to “ a portrait, a 
portrait of a lady ; was it a portrait or an ideal 
countenance ? ” 

Edith thought she had heard it was a portrait, 
but she was by no means certain ; and most as- 
suredly was quite unacquainted with the name 
of the original, if there were an original. 

Coningsby addressed himself to the point with 
Sir Joseph. He inquired of the uncle explicitly 
whether he knew anything on the subject. Sir 
Joseph was of opinion that it was something that 
Millbank had somewhere “picked up.” Millbank 
used often to “ pick up ” pictures. 

Disappointed in his love, Coningsby sought 
refuge in the excitement of study, and in the 
brooding imagination of an aspiring spirit. The 
softness of his heart seemed to have quitted him 
for ever. He recurred to his habitual reveries of 
political greatness and public distinction. And 
as it ever seemed to him that no preparation could 
be complete for the career which he planned 
for himself, he devoted himself with increased 
ardor to that digestion of knowledge which con- 
verts it into wisdom. His life at Cambridge was 
now a life of seclusion. With the exception of a 
very few Eton friends he avoided all society. 
And, indeed, his acquisitions during this term 
were such as few have equalled, and could only 
have been mastered by a mental discipline of a 
severe and exalted character. At the end of the 
term Coningsby took his degree, and in a few 
days was about to quit that University where, on 
the whole, he had passed three serene and happy 
years in the society of fond and faithful friends, 
and in ennobling pursuits. He had many plans 
for his impending movements, yet none of them 
very mature ones. Lord Vere wished Coningsby 
to visit his family in the north, and afterward to 
go to Scotland together ; Coningsby was more in- 
clined to travel for a year. Amid this hesitation 
a circumstance occurred which decided him to 
adopt neither of these courses. 

It was Commencement, and coming out of the 
quadrangle of St. John’s, Coningsby came sudden- 
ly upon Sir Joseph and Lady Wallinger, who 
were visiting the marvels and rarities of the uni- 
versity. They were alone. Coningsby was a 
little embarrassed, for he could not forget the 
abrupt manner in which he had parted from 
them ; but they greeted him with so much cor- 


116 


CONINGSBY. 


diality that he instantly recovered himself, and, 
turning, became their companion. He hardly 
ventured to ask after Edith : at length, in a de- 
pressed tone and a hesitating manner, he in- 
quired whether they had lately seen Miss Mill- 
bank. He was himself surprised at the extreme 
light-heartedness which came over him the mo- 
ment he heard she was in England, at Millbank, 
with her family. He always very much liked 
Lady Wallinger, but this morning he hung over 
her like a lover, lavished on her unceasing and 
the most delicate attentions, seemed to. exist only 
in the idea of making the Wallingers enjoy and 
understand Cambridge ; no one else was to be 
their guide at any place or under any circum- 
stances. He told them exactly what they were 
to see ; how they were to see it ; when they were 
to see it. He told them of things which nobody 
did see, but which they should. He insisted that 
Sir Joseph should dine with him in hall ; Sir 
Joseph could not think of leaving Lady Wal- 
linger ; Lady Wallinger could not think of Sir 
Joseph missing an opportunity that might never 
offer again. Besides they might both join her 
after dinner. Except to give her husband a din- 
ner, Coningsby evidently intended never to leave 
her side. 

And the next morning, the occasion favor- 
able, being alone with the lady, Sir Joseph bus- 
tling about a carriage, Coningsby said suddenly, 
with a countenance a little disturbed, and in a low 
voice, “ I was pleased, I mean surprised, to hear 
that there was still a Miss Millbank ; I thought by 
this time she might have borne another name ? ” 

Lady Wallinger looked at him with an ex- 
pression of some perplexity, and then said, “ Yes, 
Edith was very much admired ; but she need not 
be precipitate in marrying. Marriage is for a 
woman the event. Edith is too precious to be 
carelessly bestowed.” 

“ But I understood,” said Coningsby, “ when 
I left Paris,” and here he became very confused, 
“ that Miss Millbank was engaged — on the point 
of marriage.” 

“ With whom ? ” 

“ Our friend Sidonia.” 

“ I am sure that Edith would never marry 
Monsieur de Sidonia, nor Monsieur de Sidonia 
Edith. ’Tis a preposterous idea ! ” said Lady 
Wallinger. 

“ But he very much admired her? ” said Con- 
ingsby, with a searching eye. 

“Possibly,” said Lady Wallinger; “but he 
never even intimated his admiration.” 

“ But he was very attentive to Miss Millbank ? ” 

“Not more than our intimate friendship au- 
thorised, and might expect.” 

“ You have known Sidonia a long time ? ” 

“ It was Monsieur de Sidonia’s father who in- 
troduced us to the care of Mr. Wallinger,” said 
Lady Wallinger, “ and therefore I have ever en- 
tertained for his son a sincere regard. Besides I 
look upon him as a compatriot. Recently he has 
been even more than usually kind to us — espe- 
cially to Edith. While we were at Paris he re- 
covered for her a great number of jewels which 
had been left to her by her uncle in Spain ; and 
what she prized infinitely more, the whole of her 
mother’s correspondence which she maintained 
with this relative since her marriage. Nothing 


but the influence of Sidonia could have effected 
this. Therefore, of course, Edith is attached to 
him almost as much as I am. In short, he is our 
dearest friend ; our counsellor in all our cares. 
But as for marrying him, the idea is ridiculous 
to those who know Monsieur Sidonia. No 
earthly consideration would ever induce him to 
impair that purity of race on which he prides 
himself. Besides there are other obvious objec- 
tions which would render an alliance between him 
and my niece utterly impossible : Edith is quite 
as devoted to her religion as Monsieur Sidonia 
can be to his race.” 

A ray of light flashed on the brain of Con- 
ingsby as Lady Wallinger said these words. The 
agitated interview, which never could be ex- 
plained away, already appeared in quite a differ- 
ent point of view. He became pensive, remained 
silent, was relieved when Sir Joseph, whose re- 
turn he hud hitherto deprecated, reappeared. 
Coningsby learnt in the course of the day that 
the Wallingers were about to make, and immedi- 
ately, a visit to Hellingsley ; their first visit ; in- 
deed, this was the first year that Mr. Millbank had 
taken up his abode there. He did not much like 
the change of life, Sir Joseph told Coningsby, but 
Edith was delighted with Hellingsley, which Sir 
Joseph understood was a very distinguished place, 
with very fine gardens, of which his niece was 
particularly fond. 

When Coningsby returned to his rooms — those 
rooms which he was soon about to quit for ever 
— in arranging some papers preparatory to his 
removal, his eye lighted on a too-long unanswered 
letter of Oswald Millbank. Coningsby had often 
projected a visit to Oxford, which he much de- 
sired to make, but hitherto' it had been impossi- 
ble for him to effect it, except in the absence of 
Millbank; and he had frequently postponed it 
that he might combine his first visit to that fa- 
mous seat of learning with one to his old school- 
fellow and friend. Now that was practicable. 
And immediately Coningsby wrote to apprise 
Millbank that he had taken his degree, was free, 
and prepared to pay to him immediately the long- 
projected visit. Three years and more had elapsed 
since they had quitted Eton. How much had 
happened in the interval ! What new ideas, new 
feelings, vast and novel knowledge ! Though 
they had not met, they were nevertheless famil- 
iar with the progress and improvement of each 
other’s minds. Their suggestive correspondence 
was too valuable to both of them to have been 
otherwise than cherished. And now they were 
to meet on the eve of entering that world for 
which they had made so sedulous a preparation. 


CHAPTER II. 

There are few things in life more interesting 
than an unrestrained interchange of ideas with a 
congenial spirit, and there are few things more 
rare. How very seldom do you encounter in the 
world a man of great abilities, acquirements, ex- 
perience, who will unmask his mind, unbutton his 
brains, and pour forth in careless and picturesque 
phrase all the results of his studies and observa- 
tion ; his knowledge of men, books and nature ! 


MEETING OF TWO COLLEGE FRIENDS. 


117 


On the contrary, if a man has by any chance 
what he conceives an original idea, he hoards it 
as if it were old gold ; and rather avoids the sub- 
ject with which he is most conversant, from fear 
that you may appropriate his best thoughts. One 
of the principal causes of our renowned dullness in 
conversation is our extreme intellectual jealousy. 
It must be admitted that in this respect authors, 
but especially poets, bear the palm. They never 
think they are sufficiently appreciated, and live in 
tremor lest a brother should distinguish himself. 
Artists have the repute of being nearly as bad. And 
as for a small rising politician, a clever speech by 
a supposed rival or suspected candidate for office, 
destroys his appetite and disturbs his slumbers. 

One of the chief delights and benefits of trav- 
el is, that one is perpetually meeting men of 
great abilities, of original mind, and rare acquire- 
ments, who will converse without reserve. In 
these discourses the intellect makes daring leaps 
and marvellous advances. The tone that colors 
our after life is often caught in these chance col- 
loquies, and the bent given that shapes a career. 

And yet perhaps there is no occasion when 
the heart is more open, the brain more quick, 
the memory more rich and happy, or the tongue 
more prompt and eloquent, than when two 
school-day friends, knit by every sympathy of 
intelligence and affection, meet at the close of 
their college careers, after a long separation, 
hesitating, as it were, on the verge of active life, 
and compare together their conclusions of the 
interval ; impart to each other all their thoughts 
and secret plans and projects ; high fancies and 
noble aspirations ; glorious visions of personal 
fame and national regeneration. 

Ah ! why should such enthusiasm ever die ! 
Life is too short to be little. Man is never so 
manly as when he feels deeply, acts boldly, and 
expresses himself with frankness and with fervor. 

Most assuredly there never was a congress of 
friendship wherein more was said and felt than 
in this meeting, so long projected, and yet per- 
haps on the whole so happily procrastinated, be- 
tween Coningsby and Millbank. In a moment 
they seemed as if they had never parted. Their 
faithful correspondence indeed had maintained 
the chain of sentiment unbroken. But details 
are only for conversation. Each poured forth 
his mind without stint. Not an author that had 
influenced their taste or judgment but was can- 
vassed and criticised; not a theory they had 
framed or a principle they had adopted that was 
not confessed. Often, with boyish glee still lin- 
gering with their earnest purpose, they shouted 
as they discovered that they had formed the same 
opinion or adopted the same conclusion. They 
talked all day and late into the night. They con- 
densed into a week the poignant conclusions of 
three years of almost unbroken study. And one 
night, as they sat together in Millbank’s rooms at 
Oriel, their conversation having for some time 
taken a political color, Millbank said : 

“ Now tell me, Coningsby, exactly w r hat you 
conceive to be the state of parties in this coun- 
try ; for it seems to me that if we penetrate the 
surface the classification must be more simple 
than their many names would intimate.” 

“ The principle of the exclusive constitution 
of England having been conceded by the acts of 


1827-8-32,” said Coningsby, “ a party has arisen 
in the state who demand that the principle of 
political liberalism shall consequently be carried 
to its extent ; which it appears to them is impos- 
sible without getting rid of the fragments of the 
old constitution that remain. This is the de- 
structive party ; a party with distinct and intelli- 
gible principles. They seek a specific for the 
evils of our social system in the general suffrage 
of the population. 

“ They are resisted by another party, who, 
having given up exclusion, would only embrace 
as much liberalism as is necessary for the mo- 
ment ; who, without any embarrassing promulga- 
tion of principles, wish to keep things as they 
find them as long as they can ; and then will 
manage them as they find them as well as they 
can ; but as a party must have the semblance of 
principles, they take the names of the things that 
they have destroyed. Thus they are devoted to 
the prerogatives of the Crown, although in truth 
the Crown has been stripped of every one of its 
prerogatives ; they affect a 4 great veneration for 
the constitution in Church and State, though 
every one knows that the constitution in Church 
and State no longer exists ; they are ready to 
stand or fall with the ‘ independence of the Up- 
per House of Parliament,’ though, in practice, 
they are perfectly aware that, with their sanction, 

‘ the Upper House ’ has abdicated its initiatory 
functions, and now serves only as a court of re- 
view of the legislation of the House of Commons. 
Whenever public opinion, which this party never 
attempts to form, to educate, or to lead, falls 
into some violent perplexity, passion, or caprice, 
this party yields without a struggle to the im- 
pulse, and, when the storm has past, attempts to 
obstruct and obviate the logical and, ultimately, 
the inevitable results of the very measures they 
liave themselves originated, or to which they have 
consented. This is the Conservative party. 

“ I care not whether men are called Whigs or 
Tories, Radicals or Chartists, or by what nick- 
name a bustling and thoughtless race may desig- 
nate themselves ; but these two divisions com- 
prehend at present the English nation. 

“ With regard to the first school, I for one 
have no faith in the remedial qualities of a gov- 
ernment carried on by a neglected democracy, 
who, for three centuries, have received no educa- * 
tion. What prospect does it offer us of those 
high principles of conduct with which we have 
fed our imaginations and strengthened our will ? 

I perceive none of the elements of government 
that should secure the happiness of a people and 
the greatness of a realm. 

“ But in my opinion, if Democracy be com- 
bated only by Conservatism, Democracy must 
triumph, and at no distant date. This, then, is 
our position. The man who enters public life at 
this epoch has to choose between Political Infi- 
delity and a destructive Creed.” 

“This, then,” said Millbank, “is the dilemma 
to which we are brought by nearly two centuries 
of Parliamentary Monarchy and Parliamentary 
Church ? ” 

“ ’Tis true,” said Coningsby. “ We cannot 
conceal it from ourselves, that the first has made 
Government detested, and the second Religion 
disbelieved.” 


118 


CONINGSBY. 


“ Many men in this country,” said Millbank, 
“ and especially in the class to which I belong, 
are reconciled to the contemplation of democracy ; 
because they have accustomed themselves to be- 
lieve, that it is the only power by which we can 
sweep away those sectional privileges and inter- 
ests that impede the intelligence and industry of 
the community.” 

“ And yet,” said Coningsby, “ the only way 
to terminate what, in the language of the present 
day, is called Class Legislation is not to entrust 
power to classes. You would find a locofoco 
majority as much addicted to Class Legislation 
as a factitious aristocracy. The only power that 
has no class sympathy is the Sovereign.” 

“ But suppose the case of an arbitrary Sov- 
ereign, what would be your check against him ? ” 

“The same as against an arbitrary Parlia- 
ment.” 

“ But a Parliament is responsible.” 

“ To whom ? ” 

“ To their constituent body.” 

“ Suppose it was to vote itself perpetual ? ” 

“ But public opinion would prevent that.” 

“ And is public opinion of less influence on 
an individual than on a body ? ” 

“ But public opinion may be indilferent. A 
nation may be misled — may be corrupt.” 

“ If the nation that elects the Parliament be 
corrupt, the elected body will resemble it. The 
nation that is corrupt deserves to fall. But this 
only shows that there is something to be consid- 
ered beyond forms of government — national char- 
acter. And herein mainly should we repose our 
hopes. If a nation be led to aim at the good and 
the great, depend upon it, whatever be its form, 
the government will respond to its convictions and 
its sentiments.” 

“ Do you then declare against Parliamentary 
government ? ” 

“ Far from it ; I look upon political change a'« 
the greatest of evils, for it comprehends all. But 
if we have no faith in the permanence of the ex- 
isting settlement — if the very individuals who es- 
tablish it are, year after year, proposing their 
modifications or their reconstructions — so also, 
while we uphold what exists, ought we to prepare 
ourselves for the change we deem impending ? 

“ Now I would not that either ourselves, or 
our fellow-citizens, should be taken unawares as 
in 1832, when the very men who opposed the 
Reform Bill, otfered contrary objections to it 
which destroyed each other, so ignorant were 
they of its real character, its historical causes, 
its political consequences. We should now so 
act that, when the occasion arrives, we should 
clearly comprehend what we want, and have 
formed an opinion as to the best means by which 
that want can be supplied. 

“ For this purpose I would accustom the pub- 
lic mind to the contemplation of an existing 
though torpid power in the constitution, capable 
of removing our social grievances, were we to 
transfer to it those prerogatives which the Par- 
liament has gradually usurped, and used in a 
manner which has produced the present material 
and moral disorganisation. The House of Com- 
mons is the house of a few ; the Sovereign is the 
sovereign of all. The proper leader of the people 
is the individual who sits upon the throne.” 


“ Then you abjure the Representative princi- 
ple ? ” 

“ Why so ? Representation is not necessarily, 
or even in a principal sense, Parliamentary. 
Parliament is not sitting at this moment, and yet 
the nation is represented in its highest as well as 
in its most minute interests. Not a grievance 
escapes notice and redress. I see in the news- 
paper this morning that a pedagogue has brutally 
chastised his pupil. It is a fact known over all 
England. We must not forget that a principle 
of government is reserved for our days that we 
shall not find in our Aristotles, or even in the 
forests of Tacitus, nor in our Saxon Wittenage- 
motes, nor in our Plantagenet parliaments. Opin- 
ion now is supreme, and Opinion speaks in print. 
The representation of the Press is far more com- 
plete than the representation of Parliament. 
Parliamentary representation was the happy de- 
vice of a ruder age, to which it was admirably 
adapted ; an age of semi-civilization, when there 
was a leading class in the community ; but it ex- 
hibits many symptoms of desuetude. It is con- 
trolled by a system of representation more vigor- 
ous and comprehensive ; which absorbs its duties 
and fulfils them more efficiently, and in which 
discussion is pursued on fairer terms, and often 
with more depth and information.” 

“ And to what power would you entrust the 
function of Taxation ? ” 

“ To some power that would employ it more dis- 
creetly than in creating our present amount of debt, 
and in establishing our present system of imposts. 

“ In a word, true wisdom lies in the policy 
that would effect its ends by the influence of 
opinion, and yet by the means of existing forms. 
Nevertheless, if we are forced to revolutions, let 
us propose to our consideration the idea of a free 
monarchy, established on fundamental laws, itself 
the apex of a vast pile of municipal and local 
government, ruling an educated people, repre- 
sented by a free and intellectual press. Before 
such a royal authority, supported by such a 
national opinion, the sectional anomalies of our 
country would disappear. Under such a system, 
where qualification would not be parliamentary, 
but personal, even statesmen would be educated ; 
we should have no more diplomatists who could 
not speak French — no more bishops ignorant of 
theology — no more generals-in-chief who never 
saw a field. 

“ Now there is a polity adapted to our laws, 
our institutions, our feelings, our manners, our 
traditions — a polity capable of great ends, and 
appealing to high sentiments — a polity which, in 
my opinion, would render government an object 
of national affection, which would terminate sec- 
tional anomalies, assuage religious heats, and ex- 
tinguish Chartism.” 

“ You said to me yesterday,” said Millbank, 
after a pause, “ quoting the words of another, 
which you adopted, that Man was made to adore 
and to obey. Now you have shown to me the 
means by which you deem it possible that govern- 
ment might become no longer odious to the sub- 
ject; you have shown how man may be induced 
to obey. But there are duties and interests for 
man beyond political obedience, and social com- 
fort, and national greatness — higher interests and 
greater duties. How would you deal with their 


CHURCH AND STATE. 


119 


spiritual necessities ? You think you can combat 
political infidelity in a nation by the principle of 
enlightened loyalty; how would you encounter 
religious infidelity in a state ? By what means is 
the principle of profound reverence to be revived ? 
How, in short, is man to be led to adore ? ” 

“ Ah ! that is a subject which I have not for- 
gotten,” replied Coningsby. “I know from your 
letters how deeply it has engaged your thoughts. 
I confess to you that it has often filled mine with 
perplexity and depression. When we were at 
Etoti* and both of us impregnated with the con- 
trary prejudices in which we had been brought 
up, there was still between us one common ground 
of sympathy and trust ; we repose with confidence 
and affection in the bosom of our Church. Time 
and thought, with both of us, have only matured 
the spontaneous veneration of our boyhood. But 
time and thought have also shown me that the 
Church of our heart is not in a position, as re- 
gards the community, consonant with its original 
and essential character, or with the welfare of 
the nation.” 

“ The character of a Church is universality,” 
replied Millbank. “ Once the Church in this 
country was universal in principle and practice ; 
when wedded to the State, it continued at least 
universal in principle, if not in practice. What 
is it now ? All ties between the State and the 
Church are abolished, except those which tend to 
its danger and degradation. 

“ What can be more anomalous than the 
present connection between State and Church ? 
Every condition on which it was originally con- 
sented to has been cancelled. That original alli- 
ance was, in my view, an equal calamity for the 
nation and the Church ; but, at least, it was an 
intelligible compact. Parliament, then consisting 
only of members of the Established Church, was on 
ecclesiastical matters, a lay synod, and might, in 
some points of view, be esteemed a necessary 
portion of Church government. But you have 
effaced this exclusive character of Parliament ; 
you have determined that a communion with the 
Established Church shall no longer be part of the 
qualification for sitting in the House of Commons. 
There is no reason, so far as the constitution 
avails, why every member of the House of Com- 
mons should not be a dissenter. But the whole 
power of the country is concentred in the House 
of Commons. The House of Lords, even the Mon- 
arch himself, has openly announced and con- 
fessed, within these ten years, that the will of the 
House of Commons is supreme. A single vote 
of the House of Commons, in 1832, made the 
Duke of Wellington declare, in the House of 
Lords, that he was obliged to abandon his sover- 
eign in ‘ the most difficult and distressing circum- 
stances.’ The House of Commons is absolute. 
It is the State. ‘ L’Etat c’est moi.’ The House 
of Commons virtually appoints the bishops. A 
sectarian assembly appoints the bishops of the 
Established Church. They may appoint twenty 
Hoadleys. James II. was expelled the throne 
because he appointed a Roman Catholic to an 
Anglican see. A Parliament might do this to- 
morrow with impunity. And this is the consti- 
tution in Church and State which Conservative 
dinners toast! The only consequences of the 
present union of Church and State are, that, on 


| the side of the State, there is perpetual interfer- 
ence in ecclesiastical government, and on the side 
of the Church a sedulous avoidance of all those 
principles on which alone Church government 
can be established, and by the influence of which 
alone can the Church of England again become 
universal.” 

“ But it is urged that the State protects its 
revenues ? ” 

“No ecclesiastical revenues should be safe 
that require protection. Modern history is a his- 
tory of Church spoliation. And by whom ? Not 
by the people : not by the democracy. No, it is 
the emperor, the king, the feudal baron, the 
court minion. The estate of the Church is the 
estate of the people, so long as the Church is 
governed on its real principles. The Church is 
the medium by which the despised and degraded 
classes assert the native equality of man, and 
vindicate the rights and power of intellect. It 
made, in the darkest hour of Norman rule, the 
son of a Saxon pedlar Primate of England, and 
placed Nicholas Breakspear, a Hertfordshire peas- 
ant, on the throne of the Caesars. It would do 
as great things now, if it were divorced from the 
degrading and tyrannical connection that en- 
chains it. You would have other sons of peasants 
Bishops of England, instead of men appointed to 
that sacred office solely because they were the 
needy scions of a factitious aristocracy ; men of 
gross ignorance, profligate habits, and grinding 
extortion, who have disgraced the episcopal 
throne, and profaned the altar.” 

“ But surely you cannot justly extend such a 
description to the present bench ? ” 

“ Surely not : I speak of the past — of the past 
that has produced so much present evil. We 
live in decent times — frigid, latitudinarian, alarm- 
ed, decorous. A priest is scarcely deemed in our 
days a fit successor of the authors of the gospels, 
if he be not the editor of a Greek play ; and he 
who follows St. Paul must now at least have been 
private tutor of some young nobleman who has 
taken a good degree ! And then you are all aston- 
ished that the Church is not universal ! Why ! 
nothing but the indestructibleness of its princ-i- 
les, however feebly pursued, could have maintaned 
even the disorganised body that still survives. 

“ And yet, my dear Coningsby, with all its 
past errors and all its present deficiencies, it is 
by the Church — I would have said until I listened 
to you to-night — by the Church alone that I see 
any chance of regenerating the national charac- 
ter. The parochial system, though shaken by 
the fatal poor-law, is still the most ancient, the 
most comprehensive, and the most popular insti- 
tution of the country ; the younger priests are, 
in general, men whose souls are awake to the 
high mission which they have to fulfil, and which 
their predecessors so neglected ; there is, I think, 
a rising feeling in the community, that parliamen- 
tary intercourse in matters ecclesiastical has not 
tended either to the spiritual or the material ele- 
vation of the humbler orders. Divorce the 
Church from the State, and the spiritual power 
that struggled against the brute force of the dark 
ages, against tyrannical monarchs and barbarous 
barons, will struggle again in opposition to influ- 
ences of a different form, but of a similar tenden- 
cy ; equally selfish, equally insensible, equally 


120 


i 


CONINGSBY. 


barbarising. The priests of God are the tribunes 
of the people. 0, ignorant ! that with such a 
mission they should ever have cringed in the an- 
techambers of ministers, or bowed before par- 
liamentary committees ! ” 

“ The Utilitarian system is dead,” said Con- 
ingsby. “ It has passed through the heaven of 
philosophy like a hail-storm — cold, noisy, sharp, 
and peppering, and it has melted away. And yet 
can we wonder that it found some success, when we 
consider the political ignorance and social torpor 
which it assailed ? Anointed kings turned into 
chief magistrates, and therefore much overpaid ; 
estates of the realm changed into parliaments of 
virtual representation, and therefore requiring 
real reform ; holy Church transformed into na- 
tional establishment, and therefore grumbled at 
by all the nation for whom it was not supported. 
What an inevitable harvest of sedition, radical- 
ism. infidelity ! I really think there is no society, 
however great its resources, that could long re- 
sist the united influences of chief magistrate, vir- 
tual representation, and Church establishment ! ” 

“ I have immense faith in the new generation,” 
said Millbank, eagerly. 

“ It is a holy thing to see a state saved by its 
youth,” said Coningsby ; and then he added, in 
a tone of humility, if not of depression, “But 
what a task ! What a variety of qualities, w'hat 
a combination of circumstances is requisite ! 
What bright abilities and what noble patience ! 
What confidence from the people, what favor 
from the Most High ! ” 

“ But He will favor us,” said Millbank: “ And 
I say to you as Nathan said unto David, ‘Thou 
art the man!’ You were our leader at Eton ; 
the friends of your heart and boyhood still cling 
and cluster round you ! they are all men whose 
position forces them into public life. It is a nu- 
cleus of honor, faith, and power. You have only 
to dare. And will you not dare ? It is our 
privilege to live in an age when the career of the 
highest ambition is identified with the perform- 
ance of the greatest good. Of the present epoch 
it may be truly said, ‘ Who dares to be good, 
dares to be great.’ ” 

“ Heaven is above all,” said Coningsby. “ The 
curtain of our fate is still undrawn. We are hap- 
py in our friends, dear Millbank, and whatever 
lights, we will stand together. For myself, I pre- 
fer fame to life ; and yet, the consciousness of 
heroic deeds to the most wide-spread celebrity.” 


CHAPTER III. 

Tiie beautiful light of summer had never shone 
on a scene and surrounding landscape which re- 
called happier images of English nature, and bet- 
ter recollections of English manners, than that to 
which we would now introduce our readers. One 
of those true old English Halls, now unhappily so 
rare, built in the time of the Tudors, and in its 
elaborate timber-framing and decorative wood- 
work, indicating, perhaps, the scarcity of brick 
and stone at the period of its structure, as much 
as the grotesque genius of its fabricator, rose on 
a terrace surrounded by ancient and very formal 
gardens. The hall itself, during many genera- 


tions, had been vigilantly and tastefully preserved 
by its proprietors. There was not a point which 
was not as fresh as if it had been renovated but 
yesterday. It stood a huge and strange blending 
of Grecian, Gothic, and Italian architecture, with 
a wild dash of the fantastic in addition. The lan- 
tern watch-tower 3 of a baronial castle were placed 
in juxtaposition with doric columns employed 
for chimneys, while under oriel windows might 
be observed Italian doorways with Grecian pedi- 
ments. Beyond the extensive gardens an avenue 
of Spanish chestnuts at each point of the edfcipass 
approached the mansion, or led into a small park 
which was table-land, its limits opening on all 
sides to beautiful and extensive valleys, sparkling 
with cultivation, except at one point, where the 
river Dari formed the boundary of the domain, 
and then spread in many a winding through the 
rich country beyond. 

Such was Hellingsley, the new 7 home that Os- 
wald Millbank was about to visit for the first time. 
Coningsby and himself had travelled together as 
far as Darlford, where their roads diverged, and 
they had separated with an engagement on the 
part of Coningsby to visit Hellingsley on the mor- 
row. As they had travelled along, Coningsby 
had frequently led the conversation to domestic 
topics ; gradually he had talked, and talked much, 
of Edith. Without an obtr«^re curiosity, he ex- 
tracted, unconsciously to his companion, traits of 
her character and early days, which filled him 
with a wild and secret interest. The thought that 
in a few hours he was to meet her again, infused 
into his being a degree of transport, which the 
very necessity of repressing before his companion 
rendered more magical and thrilling. How often 
it happens in life that we have with a grave face 
to discourse of the most ordinary topics, while all 
the time our heart and memory are engrossed 
with some enchanting secret ! 

The castle of his grandfather presented a far 
different scene on the arrival of Coningsby from 
that which it had offered on his first visit. The 
Marquess had given him a formal permission to 
repair to it at his pleasure, and had instructed 
the steward accordingly. But he came without 
notice, at a season of the year when the absence 
of all sports made his arrival unexpected. The 
scattered and sauntering household roused them- 
selves into action, and contemplated the convic- 
tion that it might be necessary to do some ser- 
vice for their wages. There was a stir in that 
vast, sleepy castle. At last the steward was 
found, and came forward to welcome their young 
master, whose simple wants were limited to the 
rooms he had formerly occupied. 

Coningsby reached the castle a little before 
sunset, almost the same hour that he had arrived 
there more than three years ago. How much had 
happened in the interval ! Coningsby had al- 
ready lived long enough to find interest in pon- 
dering over the past. That past too must inevita- 
bly exercise a great influence over his present. 
He recalled his morning drive with his grandfa- 
ther, to the brink of that river which was the boun- 
dary between his own domain and Hellingsley. 
Who dwelt at Hellingsley now ? 

Restless, excited, not insensible to the difficul- 
ties, perhaps the dangers, of his position, yet full 
of an entrancing emotion in which all thoughts 


LADY WALLINGER AND EDITH. 


121 


and feelings seemed to merge, Couingsby went 
forth into the fair gardens to muse over his love 
amid objects as beautiful. A rosy light hung 
over the rare shrubs and tall fantastic trees; 
while a rich yet darker tuft suffused the distant 
woods. This euthanasia of the day exercises a 
strange influence on the hearts of those who love. 
"Who has not felt it? Magical emotions that 
touch the immortal part ! 

But as for Coningsby, the mitigating hour that 
softens the heart made his spiiit brave. Amid 
the ennobling sympathies of nature, the pursuits 
and purposes of worldly prudence and conven- 
tional advantage subsided into their essential 
nothingness. He willed to blend his life and fate 
with a being beautiful as that nature that sub- 
dued him, and he felt in his own breast the in- 
trinsic energies that in spite of all obstacles should 
mould such an imagination into reality. 

He descended the slopes, now growing dim- 
mer in the fleeting light, into the park. The 
stillness was almost supernatural; the jocund 
sounds of day had died, and the voices of the 
night had not commenced. His heart too was 
still. A sacred calm had succeeded to that dis- 
traction of emotion which had agitated him the 
whole day, while he had mused over his love and 
the infinite and insurmountable barriers that 
seemed to oppose his will. Now he felt one of 
those strong groundless convictions that are the 
inspirations of passion, that all would yield to him 
as to one holding an enchanted wand. 

Onward he strolled ; it seemed without pur- 
pose, yet always proceeding. A pale and then 
gleaming tint stole over the masses of mighty 
timber; and soon a glittering light flooded the 
lawns and glades. The moon was high in her 
summer heaven, and still Coningsby strolled on. 
He crossed the broad lawns, he traversed the 
bright glades : amid the gleaming and shadowy 
woods, lie traced his prescient way. 

He came to the bank of a rushing river, foam- 
ing in the moonlight, and wafting on its blue 
breast the shadow of a thousand stars. 

“ 0 river ! ” he said, “ that rollest to my mis- 
tress, bear her, bear her my heart ! ” 


CHAPTER IV. 

Lady Wallinger and Edith were together in 
the morning-room of ndlingsley, the morrow after 
the arrival of Oswald. Edith was arranging flow- 
ers in a vase, while her aunt was embroidering a 
Spanish peasant in correct costume. The daugh- 
ter of Millbank looked as bright and fragrant as 
the fair creations that surrounded her. Beautiful 
to watch her as she arranged their forms and 
composed their groups ; to mark her eye glance 
with gratification at some happy combination ot 
color, or to listen to her delight as they wafted 
to her in gratitude their perfume. Oswald and 
Sir Joseph were surveying the stables ; Mr. Mill- 
bank, who had been daily expected for the last 
week from the factories, had not yet arrived. 

“ I must say he gained my heart from the 
first,” said Lady Wallinger. 

“ I wish the gardener would send us more 
roses,” said Edith. 


“ He is so very supei'ior to any young man I 
ever met,” continued Lady Wallinger. 

“ I think we must have this vase entirely of 
roses ; don’t you think so, aunt ? ” inquired her 
niece. 

“I am very fond of roses,” said Lady Wallin- 
ger. “ What beautiful bouquets Mr. Coningsby 
gave us at Paris, Edith ! ” 

“ Beautiful ! ” 

“ I must say, I was very happy when I met 
Mr. Coningsby again at Cambridge,” said Lady 
Wallinger. “It gave me much greater pleasure 
than seeing any of the colleges.” 

“ How delighted Oswald seems at having Mr. 
Coningsby for a companion again ! ” said Edith. 

“And very naturally,” said Lady Wallinger. 
“ Oswald ought to deem himself very fortunate 
in having such a friend. I am sure the kindness 
of Mr. Coningsby when we met him at Cambridge 
is what I never shall forget. But he always was 
my favorite from the first time I saw him at Paris. 
Do you know, Edith, I liked him best of all your 
admirers.” 

“Oh! no, aunt,” said Edith, smiling, “not 
more than Lord Beaumanoir: you forget your 
great favorite, Lord Beaumanoir.” 

“ But I did not know Mr. Coningsby at Rome,” 
said Lady Wallinger; “I cannot agree that any- 
body is equal to Mr. Coningsby. I cannot tell 
you how pleased I am that he is our neighbor!” 

As Lady Wallinger gave a finishing stroke to 
the jacket of her Andalusian, Edith, vividly 
blushing, yet speaking in a voice of affected calm- 
ness, said : 

“ Here is Mr. Coningsby, aunt.” 

And, truly, at this moment our hero might be 
discerned, approaching the hall by one of the 
avenues ; and in a few minutes there was a ring- 
ing at the hall bell, and then, after a short pause, 
the servants announced Mr. Coningsby, and ush- 
ered him into the morning-room. 

Edith was embarrassed ; the frankness and 
the gaiety of her manner had deserted her; Con- 
ingsby was rather earnest than self-possessed. 
Each felt at first that the presence of Lady Wal- 
linger was a relief. The ordinary topics of con- 
versation were in sufficient plenty ; reminiscences 
of Paris, impressions of Hellingsley, his visit to 
Oxford, Lady Wallinger’s visit to Cambridge. In 
ten minutes their voices seemed to sound to each 
other as they did in the Rue de Rivoli, and their 
mutual perplexity had in a great degree subsided. 

Oswald and Sir Joseph now entered the room, 
and the conversation became general. Hellings- 
ley was the subject on which Coningsby dwelt ; 
he was charmed with all that he had seen ; wished 
to see more. Sir Joseph was quite prepared to 
accompany him ; but Lady Wallinger, who seemed 
to read Coningsby’s wishes in his eyes, proposed 
that the inspection should be general ; and in the 
course of half an hour Coningsby was walking by 
the side of Edith, and sympathising with all the 
natural charms to which her quick taste and 
lively expression called his notice and apprecia- 
tion. Few things more delightful than a country 
ramble with a sweet companion ! Exploring 
woods, wandering over green commons, loitering 
in shady lanes, resting on rural stiles ; the air full 
of perfume, the heart full of bliss ! 

It seemed to Coningsby that he had never 


122 


CONINGSBY. 


been happy before. A thrilling joy pervaded his 
being. He could have sung like a bird. His 
heart was as sunny as the summer scene. Past 
and Future were absorbed in the flowing hour ; 
not an allusion to Paris, not a speculation on what 
might arrive ; but infinite expressions of agree- 
ment, sympathy ; a multitude of slight phrases, that, 
however couched, had but one meaning — congeni- 
ality. He felt each moment his voice becoming 
more tender ; bis heart gushing in soft expres- 
sions ; each moment he was more fascinated ; her 
step was grace, her glance was beauty. Now she 
touched him by some phrase of sweet simplicity ; 
or carried him spell-bound by her airy merri- 
ment. 

Oswald assumed that Coningsby remained to 
dine with them. There was not even the cere- 
mony of invitation. Coningsby could not but re- 
member his dinner at Millbank, and the timid 
hostess whom he then addressed so often in vain, 
as he gazed upon the bewitching and accom- 
plished woman whom he now passionately loved. 
It was a most agreeable dinner. Oswald, happy 
in his friend being his guest, under his own roof, 
indulged in unwonted gaiety. 

The ladies withdrew ; Sir Joseph began to talk 
politics, although the young men had threatened 
their fair companions immediately to follow them. 
This was the period of the Bed-Chamber Plot, 
w r hen Sir Robert Peel accepted and resigned power 
in the course of three days. Sir Joseph, who had 
originally made up his mind to support a Con- 
servative government when he deemed it inevita- 
ble, had for the last month endeavored to com- 
pensate for this ttifling error by vindicating the 
conduct of his friends, and reprobating the be- 
havior of those who v r ould deprive her Majesty of 
the “ friends of her youth.” Sir Joseph was a most 
chivalrous champion of the “ friends-of-her-youth ” 
principle. Sir Joseph, w r ho was always moderate 
and conciliatory in his talk, though he would go, 
at any time, any lengths for his party, expressed 
himself to-day with extreme sobriety, as he was 
determined not to hurt the feelings of Mr. Con- 
ingsby, and he principally confined himself to 
urging temperate questions, somewhat in the fol- 
lowing fashion : 

“I admit that, on the whole, under ordinary 
circumstances, it would perhaps have been more 
convenient that these appointments should have 
remained with Sir Robert ; but don’t you think 
that, under the peculiar circumstances, being 
friends of her Majesty’s youth ? ” etc. etc. 

Sir Joseph was extremely astonished when 
Coningsby replied that he thought, under no cir- 
cumstances, should any appointment in the Royal 
Household be dependent on the voice of the 
House of Commons, though he was far from ad- 
miring the “ friends-of-her-youth ” principle, which 
he looked upon as very impertinent. 

“But surely,” said Sir Joseph, “the Minister 
being responsible to Parliament, it must follow 
that all great offices of State should be filled at his 
discretion.” 

“ But where do you find this principle of Min- 
isterial responsibility ? ” inquired Coningsby. 

“ And is not a Minister responsible to his 
Sovereign?” inquired Millbank. 

Sir Joseph seemed a little confused. lie had 
always heard that Ministers were responsible to 


Parliament; and he had a vague conviction, not- 
withstanding the reanimating loyalty of the Bed- 
Chamber Plot, that the Sovereign ot England was 
a nonentity. He took refuge in indefinite ex- 
pressions, and observed, “ The Responsibility of 
Ministers is surely a constitutional doctrine ! ” 

“ The Ministers of the Crown are responsible 
to their master ; they are not the Ministers of 
Parliament.” 

“ But then you know virtually,” said Sir 
Joseph, “the Parliament, that is, tiie House of 
Commons, governs the country.” 

“ It did before 1832,” said Coningsby ; “ but 
that is all past now. We got rid of that with the 
Venetian Constitution.” 

“The Venetian Constitution!” said Sir Jo- 
seph. 

“To be sure,” said Millbank. “We were 
governed in this country by the Venetian Consti- 
tution from the accession of the House of Han- 
over. But that yoke is past. And now I hope 
we are in a state of transition from the Italian 
Dogeship to the English Monarchy.” 

“King, Lords, and Commons, the Venetian 
Constitution!” exclaimed Sir Joseph. 

“ But they were phrases,” said Coningsby, 
“ not facts. The King was a Doge ; the Cabinet 
the Council of Ten. Your Parliament, that you 
call Lords and Commons, was nothing more than 
the Great Council of Nobles.” 

“ The resemblance was complete,” said Mill- 
bank, “ and no wonder, for it was not accidental ; 
the Venetian Constitution -was intentionally cop- 
ied.” « 

“We should have had the Venetian Republic 
in 1640,” said Coningsby, “had it not been for 
the Puritans. Geneva beat Venice.” 

“ I am sure these ideas are not very generally 
known,” said Sir Joseph, bewildered. 

“ Because you have had your history written 
by the Venetian party,” said Coningsby, “ and it 
has been their interest to conceal them.” 

“ I will venture to say that there are very few 
men on our side in the House of Commons,” said 
Sir Joseph, “ -who are aware that they were born 
under a Venetian Constitution.” 

“ Let us go to the ladies,” said Millbank, 
smiling. 

Edith was reading a letter as they entered. 

“ A letter from papa,” she exclaimed, looking 
up at her brother with great animation. “We 
may expect him every day ; and yet, alas ! he can- 
not fix one.” 

They now all spoke of Millbank, and Con- 
ingsby was happy that he was familiar with the 
scene. At length he ventured to say to Edith, 
“ You once made me a promise which you never 
fulfilled. I shall claim it to-night.” 

“ And what can that be ? ” 

“ The song that you promised me at Millbank 
more than three years ago.” 

“ Your memory is very good.” 

“ It has dwelt upon the subject.” 

Then they spoke for awhile of other recollec- 
tions, and then Coningsby appealing to Lady 
Wallinger for her influence, Edith rose and took 
up her guitar.. Her voice was rich and sweet ; 
the air she sang gay, even fantastically frolic, 
such as the girls ot Granada chaunt trooping 
home from some country festival ; her soft, dark 


EDITH’S MEMORIAL SKETCH. 


123 


eye brightened with joyous sympathy ; and ever 
and anon, with an arch grace, she beat the guitar, 
in chorus, with her pretty hand. 

The moon wanes ; and Coningsby must leave 
these enchanted halls. Oswald walked homeward 
with him until he reached the domain of his 
grandfather. Then mounting his horse, Con- 
ingsby bade his friend farewell till the morrow, 
and made his best way to the Castle. 


CHAPTER Y. 

There is a romance in every life. The em- 
blazoned page of Coningsby’s existence was now 
open. It had been prosperous before — with 
some moments of excitement, some of delight; 
but they had all found, at it were, their origin in 
worldly considerations, or been inevitably mixed 
up with them. At Paris, for example, he loved, 
or thought he loved. But there not an hour 
could elapse without his meeting some person, or 
hearing something, which disturbed the beauty of 
his emotions, or broke his spell-bound thoughts. 
There was his grandfather hating the Millbanks, 
or Sidonia loving them ; and common people, in 
the common world, making common observations 
on them — asking who they were, or telling who 
they were — and brushing the bloom off all life’s 
fresh delicious fancies with their coarse handling. 

But now his feelings were ethereal. He loved 
passionately — and he loved in a scene and in a 
society as sweet, as pure, and as refined as his 
imagination and his heart. There was no mali- 
cious gossip, no callous chatter to profane his ear 
and desecrate his sentiment. All that he heard 
or saw was worthy of the summer sky, the still 
green woods, the gushing river, the gardens and 
terraces, the stately and fantastic dwellings, 
among which his life now glided as in some 
dainty and gorgeous masque. 

All the soft, social, domestic sympathies of his 
nature, which, however abundant, had never been 
cultivated, were developed by the life he was now 
leading. It was not merely that he lived in the 
constant presence, and under the constant in- 
fluence of one whom he adored, that made him so 
happy. He was surrounded by beings who found 
felicity in the interchange of kind feelings and 
kind words — in the cultivation of happy talents 
and refined tastes, and the enjoyment of a life 
which their own good sense, and their own good 
hearts made them both comprehend and appre- 
ciate. Ambition lost much of its splendor, even 
his lofty aspirations something of their hallowing 
impulse of paramount duty, when Coningsby felt 
how much ennobling delight was consistent with 
the seclusion of a private station; and mused 
over an existence to be passed amid woods and 
waterfalls with a fair hand locked in his, or 
surrounded bv his friends in some ancestral 
hall 

The morning after his first visit to Hellingsley 
Coningsby rejoined his friends, as he had prom- 
ised Oswald, at their breakfast table ; and day 
after day he came with the early sun, and left 
them only when the late moon silvered the keep 
of Coningsby Castle. Mr. Millbank, who wrote 
daily, and was daily to be expected, did not 1 


arrive. A week, a week of unbroken bliss, bad 
vanished away — passed in long rides and longer 
walks, sunset saunterings, and sometimes moonlit 
strolls ; talking of flowers, and thinking of things 
even sweeter ; listening to delicious songs, and 
sometimes reading aloud some bright romance or 
some inspiring lay. 

One day Coningsby, who arrived at the hall un- 
expectedly late — indeed it was some hours past 
noon, for he had been detained by despatches 
which arrived at the Castle from Mr. Rigby, 
and which required his interposition — found 
the ladies alone, and was told that Sir Joseph 
and Oswald were at the fishing-cottage, where 
they wished him to join them. He was in no 
haste to do this ; and Lady Wallinger proposed 
that when they felt inclined to ramble they should 
all walk down to the fishing-cottage together. 
So, seating himself by the side of Edith, who 
was tinting a sketch which she had made of a 
rich oriel of Hellingsley, the morning passed 
away in that slight and yet subtle talk in which 
a lover delights, and in which, while asking a 
thousand questions, that seem at the first glance 
sufficiently trifling, he is indeed often conveying 
a meaning that is not expressed, or attempting 
to discover a feeling that is hidden. And these 
are occasions, when glances meet and glances 
are withdrawn : the tongue may speak idly — the 
eye is more eloquent, and often more true. 

Coningsby looked up; Lady Wallinger, who 
had more than once announced that she was 
going to put on her bonnet, was gone. Yet still 
lie continued to talk trifles ; and still Edith 
listened. 

“ Of all that you have told me,” said Edith, 
“ nothing pleases me so much as your description 
of St. Genevieve. How much I should like to 
catch the deer at sunset on the heights ! What 
a pretty drawing it would make ! ” 

“You would like Eustace Lyle,” said Con- 
ingsby. “ He is so shy and yet so ardent.” 

“ You have such a band of friends. Oswald 
was saying this morning there was no one who 
had so many devoted friends.” 

“ We are all united by sympathy. It is the 
only bond of friendship; and yet friendship ” 

“Edith,” said Lady Wallinger, looking into 
the room from the garden, with her bonnet on, 
“ you will find me roaming on the terrace.” 

“ We come, dear aunt.” 

And yet they did not move. There were yet 
a few pencil touches to be given to the tinted 
sketch — Coningsby would cut the pencils. 

“ Would you give me,” he said, “ some slight 
memorial of Hellingsley and your art ? I would 
not venture to hope for anything half so beauti- 
ful as this ; but the slightest sketch. It would 
make me so happy when away to have it hang- 
ing in my room.” 

A blush suffused the cheek of Edith ; she 
turned her head a little aside, as if she were ar- 
ranging some drawings. And then she said in a 
somewhat hushed and hesitating voice — 

“ I am sure I will do so ; and with pleasure. A 
view of the Hall itself ; I think that would be 
the best memorial. Where shall we take it 
from? We will decide in our walk;” and she 
rose, and promising immediately to return, left 
the room. 


124 


CONINGSBY. 


Coningsby leant over the mantel-piece in 
deep abstraction, gazing vacantly on a miniature 
of the father of Edith. A light step roused him ; 
she had returned. Unconsciously he greeted her 
with a glance of ineffable tenderness. 

They went forth ; it was a grey, sultry day. 
Indeed it was the covered skv which had led to 
the fishing scheme of the morning. Sir Joseph 
was an expert and accomplished angler ; and the 
Dari was renowned for its sport. They lingered 
before they reached the terrace where they were 
to find Lady Wallinger, observing the different 
points of view which the Hall presented, and de- 
bating which was to form the subject of Conings- 
bv’s drawing; for already it was 'to be not merely 
a sketch, but a drawing, the most finished that 
the bright and effective pencil of Edith could 
achieve. If it really were to be placed in his 
room, and were to be a memorial of Hellingsley, 
her artistic reputation demanded a masterpiece. 

They reached the terrace: Lady Wallinger 
was not there, nor could they observe her in the 
vicinity. Coningsby was quite certain that she 
had gone onward to the fishing-cottage, and ex- 
pected them to follow her ; and he convinced 
Edith of the justness of his opinion. To the 
fishing-cottage, therefore, they bent their steps. 
They emerged from the gardens into the park, 
sauntering over the table land, and seeking as 
much as possible the shade, in the soft but op- 
pressive atmosphere. At the limit of the table 
land their course lay by a wild but winding path 
through a gradual and wooded declivity. While 
they were yet in this craggy and romantic wood- 
land, the big fervent drops began to fall. Con- 
ingsby urged Edith to seek at once a natural 
shelter; but she, who knew the country, assured 
him that the fishing-cottage was close by, and 
that they might reach it before the rain could 
do them any harm. 

And truly, at this moment emerging from the 
wood, they found themselves in the valley of the 
Dari. The river here was narrow and winding, 
but full of life ; rushing, and clear but for the 
dark sky it reflected ; with high banks of turf 
and tall trees ; the silver birch, above all others, 
in clustering groups ; infinitely picturesque. At 
the turn of the river, about two hundred yards 
distant, Coningsby observed the low, dark roof 
of the fishing-cottage on its banks. They de- 
scended from the woods to the margin of the 
stream by a flight of turfen steps, Coningsby 
holding Edith’s hand as he guided her progress. 

The drops became thicker. They reached, at 
a rapid pace, the cottage. The absent boat indi- 
cated that Sir Joseph and Oswald were on the 
river. The cottage was an old building of rustic 
logs, with a shelving roof, so that you might ob- 
tain sufficient shelter without entering its walls. 
Coningsby found a rough garden seat for Edith. 
The shower was now violent. 

Nature, like man, sometimes weeps from 
gladness. It is the joy and tenderness of her 
heart that seek relief; and these are summer 
showers. In this kistance the vehemence of her 
emotion was transient, though the tears kept 
stealing down her cheek for a long time, and 
gentle sighs and sobs might for some period be 
distinguished. The oppressive atmosphere had 
evaporated ; the grey, sullen tint had disap- 


peared ; a soft breeze came dancing up the 
stream; a glowing light fell upon the woods and 
waters; the perfume of trees and flowers and 
herbs floated around. There was a carolling of 
birds; a hum of happy insects in the air; fresh- 
ness and stir, and a sense of joyous life pervaded 
all things; it seemed that the heart of all crea- 
tion opened. 

Coningsby, after repeatedly watching the 
shower with Edith, and speculating on its prog- 
ress, which did not much annoy them, had 
seated himself on a log almost at her feet. 
And assuredly a maiden and a youth more beau- 
tiful and engaging had seldom met before in a 
scene more fresh and fair. Edith on her rustic 
seat watched the now blue and foaming river, 
and the birch-trees with a livelier tint, and quiv- 
ering in the sunset air; an expression of tran- 
quil bliss suffused her beautiful brow, and spoke 
from the thrilling tenderness of her soft dark 
eye. Coningsby gazed on that countenance with 
a glance of entranced rapture. His cheek was 
flushed, his eye gleamed with dazzling lustre. 
She turned her head ; she met that glance, and, 
troubled, she withdrew her own. 

“ Edith ! ” he said, in a tone of tremulous 
passion, “ let me call you Edith ! Yes,” he con- 
tinued, gently taking her hand, “ let me call you 
my Edith ! I love you ! ” 

She did not withdraw her hand; but turned 
away a face flushed as the impending twilight. 


CHAPTER YI. 

It was past the dinner hour when Edith and 
Coningsby reached the Hall ; an embarrass- 
ing circumstance, but mitigated by the conviction 
that they had not to encounter a very critical in- 
spection. What, then, were their feelings when 
the first servant that they met informed them 
that Mr. Millbank had arrived ! Edith never 
could have believed that the return of her be- 
loved father to his home could ever have been to 
her other than a cause of delight. And yet now 
she trembled when she heard the announcement. 
The mysteries of love were fast involving her ex- 
istence. But this was not the season of medita- 
tion. Her heart was still agitated by the tremu- 
lous admission that she responded to that fervent 
and adoring love whose eloquent music still 
sounded in her ear, and the pictures of whose 
fanciful devotion flitted over her agitated vision. 
Unconsciously she pressed the arm of Coningsby 
as the servant spoke, and then, without looking 
into his face, whispering him to be quick, she 
sprang away. 

As for Coningsby, notwithstanding the elation 
of his heart, and the ethereal joy which flowed 
in all his veins, the name of Mr. Millbank sounded 
something like a knell However, this was not 
the, time to reflect. He obeyed the hint of Edith ; 
made the most rapid toilet that ever was consum- 
mated by a happy lover, and in a few minutes en- 
tered the drawing-room of Hellingsley, to en- 
counter the gentleman whom he hoped by some 
means or other, quite inconceivable, might some 
day be transformed into his father-in-law, and 
the fulfilment of his consequent duties towards 


A DECLARATION OF LOVE. 


125 


whom he had commenced by keeping him wait- 
ing for dinner. 

“ How do you do, sir ? ” said Mr. Millbank, 
extending his hand to Coningsby. “You seem 
to have taken a long walk.” 

Coningsby looked round to the kind Lady 
Wallinger, and half addressed his murmured an- 
swer to her, explaining how they had lost her, 
and their way, and were caught in a storm or a 
shower, which, as it terminated about three hours 
back, and the fishing-cottage was little more than 
a mile from the hall, very satisfactorily accounted 
for their not being in time for dinner. 

Lady Wallinger then* said something about 
the lowering clouds having frightened her from 
the terrace, and Sir Joseph and Oswald talked a 
little of their sport, and of their having seen an 
otter ; but there was, or at least there seemed to 
Coningsby, a tone of general embarrassment 
which distressed him. The fact is, keeping peo- 
ple from dinner, under any circumstances, is dis- 
tressing. They are obliged to talk at the very 
moment when they wish to use their powers of 
expression for a very different purpose. They 
are faint, and conversation makes them more ex- 
hausted. A gentleman, too, fond of his family, 
who in turn are devoted to him, making a great 
and inconvenient effort to reach them by dinner 
time, to please and surprise them ; and finding 
them all dispersed, dinner so late that he might 
have reached home in good time without any great 
inconvenient effort ; his daughter, whom he has 
wished a thousand times to embrace, taking a sin- 
gularly long ramble with no other companion than 
a young gentleman, whom he did not exactly ex- 
pect to see ; all these are circumstances, individu- 
ally perhaps slight, and yet encountered collec- 
tively, it may be doubted whether they would not 
a little ruffle even the sweetest temper. 

Mr. Millbank, too, had not the sweetest tem- 
per, though not a bad one ; a little quick and 
fiery. But then he had a kind heart. And when 
Edith, who had providentially sent down a mes- 
sage to order dinner, entered and embraced him 
at the very moment that dinner was announced, 
her father forgot everything in his joy in seeing 
her, and his pleasure in being surrounded by his 
friends. He gave his hand to Lady Wallinger ; 
and Sir Joseph led away his niece. Coningsby 
put his arm around the astonished neck of Os- 
wald, as if they were once more in the playing 
fields of Eton. 

“ By Jove ! my dear fellow,” he exclaimed, 
“ I am so sorry we kept your father from dinner.” 

As Edith headed her father’s table, according 
to his rigid rule, Coningsby was on one side of 
her. They never spoke so little ; Coningsby 
would have never unclosed his lips, had he fol- 
lowed his humor. He was in a stupor of happi- 
ness ; the dining-room took the appearance of the 
fishing-cottage ; and he saw nothing but the flow- 
ing river. Lady Wallinger was, however, next to 
him, and that was a relief; for he felt always she 
was his friend. Sir Joseph, a good-hearted man, 
and on subjects with which he was acquainted 
full of sound sense, was invaluable to-day, for he 
kept up the conversation, speaking of things 
which greatly interested Mr. Millbank. And so 
their host soon recovered his good temper ; he 
addressed several times his observations to Con- 


ingsby, and was careful to take wine with him. 
On the whole, affairs went on flowingly enough. 
The gentlemen, indeed, stayed much longer over 
their wine than on the preceding days, and Con- 
ingsby did not venture on the liberty of quitting 
the room before his host. It was as well. Edith 
required repose. She tried to seek it on the 
bosom of her aunt, as she breathed to her the 
delicious secret of her life. When the gentlemen 
returned to the drawing-room, the ladies were not 
there. 

This rather disturbed Mr. Millbank again ; he 
had not seen enough of his daughter ; he wished 
to hear her sing. But Edith managed to reap- 
pear ; and even to sing. Then Coningsby went 
up to her and asked her to sing the song of the 
Girls of Granada. She said in a low voice, and 
with a fond yet serious look : 

“ I am not in the mood for such a song, but 
if you wish me — ” 

She sang it, and with inexpressible grace, and 
with an arch vivacity, that to a fine observer 
would have singularly contrasted with the almost 
solemn and eveu troubled expression of her coun- 
tenance a moment afterward. 

The day was about to die ; the day the most 
important, the most precious in the lives of Harry 
Coningsby and Edith Millbank. Words had been 
spoken, vows breathed, which were to influence 
their careers for ever. For them hereafter there 
was to be but one life, one destiny, one world. 
Each of them was still in such a state of tremu- 
lous excitement, that neither had found time nor 
occasion to ponder over the mighty result. They 
both required solitude ; they both lcnged to be 
alone. Coningsby rose to depart. He pressed 
the soft hand of Edith, and his glance spoke his 
soul. 

“We shall see you at breakfast to-morrow, 
Coningsby ! ” said Oswald, very loud, knowing 
that the presence of his father would make Con- 
ingsby hesitate about coming. Edith’s heart flut- 
tered ; but she said nothing. It was with delight 
she heard her father, after a moment’s pause, 
say— 

“ Oh ! I beg we may have that pleasure.” 

“ Not quite at so early an hour,” said Conings- 
by ; “ but if you will permit me, I hope to have 
the pleasure of* hearing from you to-morrow, sir, 
that your journey has not fatigued you.” 


CHAPTER VII. 

To be alone ; to have no need of feigning a 
tranquillity he could not feel ; of coining common- 
place courtesy when his heart was gushing with 
rapture; this was a great relief to Coningsby, 
though gained by a separation from Edith. 

The deed was done ; he had breathed his long- 
brooding passion, he had received the sweet ex- 
pression of her sympathy, he had gained the long- 
coveted heart. Youth, beauty, love, the innocence 
of unsophisticated breasts, and the inspiration of 
an exquisite nature, combined to fashion the spell 
that now entranced his life. He turned to gaze 
upon the moonlit towers and peaked roofs of 
Hellingsley. Silent and dreamlike, the picturesque 
pile rested on its broad terrace flooded with 


126 


CONINGSBY. 


the silver light, and surrounded by the quaint 
bovvers of its fantastic gardens tipped with the 
glittering beam. Half hid in deep shadow, half 
sparkling in the midnight blaze, he recognised the 
oriel window that had been the subject of the 
morning’s sketch. Almost he wished there should 
be some sound to assure him of his reality. But 
nothing broke the all-pervading stillness. Was 
his life to be as bright and as tranquil? And 
what was to be his life ? 

Whither was he to bear the beautiful bride he 
had gained ? Were the portals of Coningsby the 
proud and hospitable gates that were to greet her ? 
How long would they greet him after the achieve- 
ment of the last four-and-twenty hours was known 
to their lord ? Was this the return for the con- 
fiding kindness of his grandsire ? That he should 
pledge his troth to the daughter of that grandsire’s 
foe? 

Away with such dark and scaring visions ! Is 
it not the noon of a summer night fragrant with 
the breath of gardens, bright with the beam that 
lovers love, and soft with the breath of Ausonian 
breezes ? Within that sweet and stately resi- 
dence, dwells there not a maiden fair enough to 
revive chivalry ; who is even now thinking of him 
as she leans on her pensive hand, or, if perchance 
she dream, recals him in her visions ? And him- 
self, is he one who would cry craven with such a 
lot? What avails his golden youth, his high 
blood, his daring and devising spirit, and all his 
stores of wisdom, if they help not now ? Does not 
he feel the energy divine that can confront Fate 
and carve out fortunes ? Besides, it is nigh Mid- 
summer Eve, and what should fairies reign for 
but to aid such a bright pair as this ? 

He recals a thousand times the scene, the mo- 
ment, in which but a few hours past he dared to 
tell her that he loved ; he recals a thousand times 
the still, small voice, that murmured her agitated 
felicity ; more than a thousand times, for his heart 
clenched the idea as a diver grasps a gem, he re- 
cals the enraptured yet gentle embrace, that had 
sealed upon her blushing cheek his mystical and 
delicious sovereignty. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Tiie morning broke lowering and thunderous ; 
small white clouds, dull and immoveable, studded 
the leaden sky ; the waters of the rushing Dari 
seemed to have become black and almost stag- 
nant ; the terraces of Hellingsley looked like the 
hard lines of a model ; and the mansion itself had 
a harsh and metallic character. Before the chief 
portal of his Hall, the elder Millbank, with an air 
of some anxiety, surveyed the landscape and the 
heavens, as if he were speculating on the destiny 
of the day. 

Often his eye wandered over the park ; often 
with an uneasy and restless step he paced the 
raised walk before him. The clock of Hellingsley 
church had given the chimes of noon. His son 
and Coningsby appeared at the end of one of the 
avenues. His eye lightened ; his lip became com- 
pressed ; he advanced to meet them. 

“ Are you going to fish to-day, Oswald ? ” he 
inquired of his son. 


“We had some thoughts of it, sir.” 

“ A fine day for sport, I should think,” he 
observed, as he turned tow r ards the Hall with 
them. 

Coningsby remarked the fanciful beauty of the 
portal ; its twdsted columns, and Caryatides 
carved in dark oak. 

“ Yes, it’s very well,” said Millbank ; “ but I 
really do not know why I came here ; my presence 
is an effort. Oswald does not care for the place ; 
none of us do, I believe.” 

“ Oh ! I like it now, father ; and Edith doats 
on it.” 

“ She was very happy at Millbank,” saith the 
father, rather sharply. 

“We are all of us happy at Millbank,” said 
Oswald. 

“ I was much struck with the valley and the 
whole settlement when I first saw it,” said Con- 
ingsby. 

“ Suppose you go and see about the tackle, 
Oswald,” said Mr. Millbank, “ and Mr. Coningsby 
and I will take a stroll on the terrace in the mean- 
time.” 

The habit of obedience, which was supreme in 
this family, instantly carried Oswald away, though 
he was rather puzzled why his father should be so 
particularly anxious about the preparation of the 
fishing-tackle, as be very rarely used it. His son 
had no sooner departed than Mr. Millbank turned 
to Coningsby, and said very abruptly : 

“ You have never seen my own room here, 
Mr. Coningsby ; step in ; for I wish to sav a word 
to you.” And thus speaking, he advanced before 
the astonished, and rather agitated Coningsby, 
and led the way through a door and long passage 
to a room of moderate dimensions, partly fur- 
nished as a library, and full of parliamentary 
papers and blue-books. Shutting the door with 
some earnestness, and pointing to a chair, he 
begged his guest to be seated. Both in their 
chairs, Mr. Millbank, clearing his throat, said, 
without preface, “ I have reason to believe, Mr. 
Coningsby, that you are attached to my daugh- 
ter ? ” 

“ I have been attached to her for a long time 
most ardently,” replied Coningsby, in a calm and 
rather measured tone, but looking very pale. 

“ And I have reason to believe that she re- 
turns your attachment?” said Mr. Millbank. 

“ I believe she deigns — not to disregard it,” 
said Coningsby, his white cheek becoming scarlet. 

“ It is then a mutual attachment, which, if 
cherished, must produce mutual unhappiness,” 
said Mr. Millbank. 

“ I -would fain believe the reverse,” said Con- 
ingsby. 

“ Why ? ” inquired Mr. Millbank. 

“ Because I believe she possesses every charm, 
quality, and virtue, that can bless man ; and be- 
cause, though I can make her no equivalent re- 
turn, I have a heart, if I know myself, that would 
struggle to deserve her.” 

“ I know you to be a man of sense ; I believe 
you to be a man of honor,” replied Mr. Millbank. 
“ As the first, you must feel that an union between 
you and my daughter is impossible ; what then 
should be your duty as a man of correct principle 
is obvious.” 

“ I could conceive that our union might be at- 


FAMILY HATREDS. 


127 


tended with difficulties,” said Coningsby, in a 
somewhat deprecating tone. 

“ Sir, it is impossible,” repeated Mr. Millbank, 
interrupting him, though not with harshness ; 
“ that is to say, there is no conceivable marriage 
which could be effected at greater sacrifices, and 
which would occasion greater misery.” 

“ The sacrifices are more apparent to me than 
the misery,” said Coningsby, “ and even they may 
be imaginary.” 

“ The sacrifices and the misery are certain 
and inseparable,” said Mr. Millbank. “ Come 
now, see how we stand ! I speak without re- 
serve, for this is a subject which cannot permit 
misconception, but with no feelings towards you, 
sir, but fair and friendly ones. You are the 
grandson of my Lord Monmouth ; at present en- 
joying his favor, but dependent on his bounty. 
You may be the heir of his wealth to-morrow, 
and to-morrow you may be the object of his hatred 
and persecution. Your grandfather and myself 
are foes ; bitter, irreclaimable, to the death. It 
is idle to mince phrases ; I do not vindicate our 
mutual feelings, I may regret that they have ever 
arisen ; I may regret it especially at this exigency. 
They are not the feelings of good Christians ; they 
may be altogether to be deplored and unjusti- 
fiable ; but they exist, mutually exist ; and have 
not been confined to words. Lord Monmouth 
would crush me, had he the power, like a worm ; 
and I have curbed his proud fortunes often. 
Were it not for this feeling, I should not be here ; 

I purchased this estate merely to annoy him, as I 
have done a thousand other acts merely for his I 
discomfiture and mortification. In our long en- 
counter I have done him infinitely more injury 
than he could do me ; I have been on the spot, I 
am active, vigilant, the maker of my fortunes. 
He is an epicurean, continually in foreign parts, 
obliged to leave the fulfilment of his will to 
others. But, for these very reasons, his hate is 
more intense. I can afford to hate him less than 
he hates me — I have injured him more. Here are 
feelings to exist between human beings ! But 
they do exist — and now you are to go to this man, 
and ask his sanction to marry my daughter ! ” 

“ But I would appease these hatreds ; I would 
allay these dark passions, the origin of which I 
know not, but which never could justify the end, 
and which lead to so much misery. I would 
appeal to my grandfather — I would show him 
Edith.” 

“ He has looked upon as fair even as Edith,” 
said Mr. Millbank, rising suddenly from his seat, 
and pacing the room, “ and did that melt his 
heart ? The experience of your own lot should 
have guarded you from the perils that you have 
so rashly meditated encountering, and the misery 
which you have been preparing for others besides 
yourself. Is my daughter to be treated like your 
mother ? And by the same hand ? Your moth- 
er’s family were not Lord Monmouth’s foes. 
They were simple and innocent people, free from 
all the bad passions of our nature, and ignorant 
of the world’s ways. But because they were not 
noble, because they could trace no mystified de- 
scent from a foreign invader or the sacrilegious 
minion of some spoliating despot, their daughter 
was hunted from the family which should have 
exulted to receive her, and the land of which she 


was the native ornament. Why should a happier 
lot await you than fell to your parents ? You are 
in the same position as your father ? you medi- 
tate the same act. The only difference being ag- 
gravating circumstances in your case, which, even 
if I were a member of the same order as my Lord 
Monmouth, would prevent the possibility of a 
prosperous union. Marry Edith, and you blast 
all the prospects of your life, and entail on her a 
sense of unceasing humiliation. Would you do 
this ? Should I permit you to do this ? ” 

Coningsby, with his head resting on his arm, 
his face a little shaded, his eyes fixed on the 
ground, listened in silence. There was a pause; 
broken by Coningsby, as in a low voice, without 
changing his posture or raising his glance, he 
said, “ It seems, sir, that you w r ere acquainted 
with my mother ! ” 

“ 1 knew sufficient of her,” replied Mr. Mill- 
bank, with a kindling cheek, “ to learn the misery 
that a woman may entail on herself by marrying 
out of her condition. I have bred my children 
in a respect for their class. I believe they have 
imbibed my feeling ; though it is strange how in 
the commerce of the world, chance, in their 
friendships, has apparently baffled my designs.” 

“Oh! do not say it is chance, sir,” said 
Coningsby, looking up, and speaking with much 
fervor. “ The feelings that animate me towards 
your family are not the feelings of fchance ; they 
are the creation of sympathy ; tried by time, 
tested by thought. And must they perish ? Can 
they perish ? They were inevitable ; they are in- 
destructible. Yes, sir, it is in vain to speak of 
the enmities that are fostered between you and 
my grandfather; the love that exists between 
your daughter and myself is stronger than all 
your hatreds.” 

“ You speak like a young man, aud a young 
man that is in love,” said Mr. Millbank. “ This 
is mere rhapsody ; it will vanish in an instant be- 
fore the reality of life. And you have arrived at 
that reality,” he continued, speaking with em- 
phasis, leaning over the back of his chair, and 
looking steadily at Coningsby with his grey, saga- 
cious eye ; “ my daughter and yourself can meet 
no more.” 

“ It is impossible you can be so cruel ! ” ex- 
claimed Coningsby. 

“ So kind — kind to you both ; for I wish to be 
kind to you as well as to her. You are entitled 
to kindness from us all ; though I will tell you 
now, that, years ago, when the news arrived that 
my son’s life had been saved, and had been saved 
by one who bore the name of Coningsby, I had a 
presentiment, great as was the blessing, that it 
might lead to unhappiness.” 

“I can answer for the misery of one,” said 
Coningsby, in a tone of great despondency. “ I 
feel as if my sun were set. Oh ! why should 
there be such wretchedness ! Why are there 
family hatreds and party feuds ! Why am I the 
most wretched of men ! ” 

“ My good young friend, you will live, I doubt 
not, to be a happy one. Happiness is not, as we 
are apt to fancy, entirely dependent on these con- 
tingencies. It is the lot of most men to endure 
what you are now suffering, and they can look 
back to such conjunctures through the vista of 
years with calmness.” 


128 


CONINGSBY. 


“ I may see Edith now ? ” 

“ Frankly, I should say, no. My daughter is 
in her room ; I have had some conversation with 
her. Of course she suffers not less than your- 
self. To see her again will only aggravate woe. 
You leave under this roof, sir, some sad memo- 
ies, but no unkind ones. It is not likely that I 
can serve you, or that you may want my aid ; 
but whatever may be in my power, remember 
you may command it — without reserve and with- 
out restraint. If I control myself now, it is not 
because I do not respect your affliction, but be- 
cause in the course of my life I have felt too 
much not to be able to command my feelings.” 

“ You never could have felt what I feel now,” 
said Coningsby in a tone of anguish. 

“ You touch on delicate ground,” said Mill- 
bank ; “ yet from me you may learn to suffer. 
There was a being once, not less fair than the 
peerless girl that you would fain call your own, 
and her heart was my proud possession. There 
were no family feuds to baffle our union, nor was 
I dependent on anything, but the energies which 
had already made me flourishing. What happi- 
ness was mine ! It was the first dream of my 
life, and it was the last ; my solitary passion, the 
memory of which softens my heart. Ah ! you 
dreaming scholars, and fine gentlemen who saun- 
ter through life, you think there is no romance in 
the loves of a man who lives in the toil and tur- 
moil of business. You are in deep error. Amid 
my career of travail, there was ever a bright form 
which animated exertion, inspired my invention, 
nerved my energy, and to gain whose heart and life 
I first made many of those discoveries, and en- 
tered into many of those speculations, that have 
since been the foundation of my wide prosperity. 

“ Her faith was pledged to me ; I lived upon 
her image ; the day was even talked of when I 
should bear her to the home that I had proudly 
prepared for her. 

“ There came a young noble, a warrior who 
had never seen war, glittering with gew-gaws. 
He was quartered in the town where the mistress 
of my heart, and who was soon to share my life 
and my fortunes, resided. The tale is too bitter 
not to be brief. He saw her, he sighed ; I will 
hope that he loved her ; she gave him with rap- 
ture the heart which perhaps she found she had 
never given me ; and instead of bearing the name 
I had once hoped to have called her by, she 
pledged her faith at the altar to one who, like 
you, was called — Coningsby.” 

“ My mother ! ” 

“ You see, I too have had my griefs.” 

“ Dear sir,” said Coningsby, rising and taking 
Mr. Millbank’s hand, “ I am most wretched ; and 
yet I wish to part from you even with affection. 
You have explained circumstances that have long 
perplexed me. A curse, I fear, is on our fami- 
lies. I have not mind enough at this moment 
even to ponder on my situation. My head is a 
chaos. I go ; yes, I quit this Hellingsley, where 
I came to be so happy, where I have been so 
happy. Nay, let me go, dear sir ! I must be 
alone, I must try to think. And tell her — no, 
tell her nothing. God will guard over us ! ” 

Proceeding down the avenue with a rapid and 
distempered step, his countenance lost as it were 
in a wild abstraction, Coningsby encountered 


Oswald Millbank. He stopped, collected his tur- 
bulent thoughts, and throwing on Oswald one 
look that seemed at the same time to communi- 
cate woe and to demand sympathy, flung himself 
into his arms. 

“ My friend ! ” he exclaimed, and then added, 
in a broken voice, “ I need a friend.” 

Then in a hurried, impassioned, and some- 
what incoherent strain, leaning on Oswald’s arm, 
as they walked on together, he poured forth all 
that had occurred, all of which he had dreamed ; 
his baffled bliss, his actual despair. Alas ! there 
was little room for solace, and yet all that ear- 
nest affection could inspire, and a sagacious brain 
and a brave spirit, were offered for his support, 
if not his consolation, by the friend who was de- 
voted to him. 

In the midst of this deep communion, teem- 
ing with every thought and sentiment that could 
enchain and absorb the spirit of man, they came 
to one of the park-gates of Coningsby. Millbank 
stopped. The command of his father was per- 
emptory, that no member of his family, under 
any circumstances or for any consideration, 
should set his foot on that domain. Lady Wal- 
linger had once wished to have seen the Castle, 
and Coningsby was only too happy in the pros- 
pect of escorting her and Edith over the place; 
but Oswald had then at once put his veto on the 
project, as a thing forbidden ; and which, if put 
in practice, his father would never pardon. So 
it passed off, and now Oswald himself was at the 
gates of that very domain with his friend who 
was about to enter them, his friend whom he 
might never see again ; that Coningsby who, 
from their boyish days, had been the idol of his 
life ; whom he had lived to see appeal to his af- 
fections and his sympathy, and whom Oswald was 
now going to desert in the midst of his lonely 
and unsolaced woe. 

“ I ought not to enter here,” said Oswald, 
holding the hand of Coningsby as he hesitated to 
advance ; “ and yet there are duties more sacred 
even than obedience to a father. I cannot leave 
you thus, friend of my best heart ! ” 

The morning passed away in unceasing yet 
fruitless speculation of the future. One moment 
something was to happen, the next nothing could 
occur. Sometimes a beam of hope flashed over 
the fancy of Coningsby, and jumping up from the 
turf, on which they were reclining, he seemed to 
exult in his renovated energies ; and then this 
sanguine paroxysm was succeeded by a fit of de- 
pression so dark and dejected, that nothing but 
the presence of Oswald seemed to prevent Con- 
ingsby from flinging himself into the waters of 
the Dari. 

The day was fast declining, and the inevi- 
table moment of separation was at hand. Os- 
wald wished to appear at the dinner-table of 
Hellingsley, that no suspicion might arise in the 
mind of his father of his having accompanied 
Coningsby home. But just as he was beginning 
to mention the necessity of his departure, a flash 
of lightning seemed to transfix the heavens. The 
sky was very dark; though studded here and 
therewith dingy spots. The young men sprang 
up at the same time. 

“We had better get out of these trees,” said 
Oswald. 


THE LONDON SEASON. 


129 


“ We had better get to the Castle,” said Con- 
ingsby. 

A clap of thunder that seemed to make the 
park quake, broke over their heads, followed by 
some thick drops. The Castle was close at 
hand ; Oswald had avoided entering it ; but the 
impending storm was so menacing, that, hurried 
on by Coningsby, he could make no resistance ; 
and, in a few minutes, the companions were 
watching the tempest from the windows of a 
room in Coningsby Castle. 

The forked lightning flashed and scintillated 
from every quarter of the horizon : the thunder 
broke over the Castle, as if the keep were rock- 
ing with artillery : amid the momentary pauses 
of the explosion, the rain was heard descending 
like dissolving water-spouts. 

Nor -was this one of those transient tempests 
that often agitate the summer. Time advanced, 
and its fierceness was little mitigated. Sometimes 
there was a lull, though the violence of the rain 
never appeared to diminish ; but then, as in some 
pitched fight between contending hosts, when the 
fervor of the field seems for a moment to allay, 
fresh squadrons arrive and renew the hottest 
strife, so a low moaning wind that was now at in- 
tervals faintly heard, bore up a great reserve of 
electric vapor, that formed as it were into field in 
the space between the Castle and Hellingsley, and 
then discharged its violence on that fated district. 

Coningsby and Oswald exchanged looks. 
“ You must not think of going home at present, 
my dear fellow,” said the first. “ I am sure your 
father would not be displeased. There is not a 
being here who even knows you, and if they did 
— what then ? ” 

The servant entered the room, and inquired 
whether the gentlemen were ready for dinner. 

“By all means; come, my dear Millbank, I 
feel reckless as the tempest ; let us drown our 
cares in wine ! ” 

Coningsby, in fact, was exhausted by all the 
agitation of the day, and all the harassing spec- 
tres of the future. * He found wine a momentary 
solace. He ordered the servants away, and for a 
moment felt a degree of wild satisfaction in the 
company of the brother of Edith. 

Thus they sat for a long time, talking only of 
one subject, and repeating almost the same 
things, yet both felt happier in being together. 
Oswald had risen, and opening the window, ex- 
amined the approaching night. The storm had 
lulled, though the rain still fell ; in the west was 
a streak of light. In a quarter of an hour, he cal- 
culated on departing. As he was watching the 
wind, he thought he heard the sound of wheels, 
which reminded him of Coningsby’s promise to 
lend him a light carriage for his return. 

They sat down once more ; they had filled 
their glasses for the last time ; to pledge to their 
faithful friendship, and the happiness ot Conings- 
by and Edith ; when the door of the room 
opened, and there appeared — Mr. Rigby ! 


BOOK VIII. 

CHAPTER I. 

It was the heart of the London season, nearly 
four years ago — twelve months having almost 
elapsed since the occurrence of those painful 
passages at Hellingsley which closed the last book 
of this history — and long lines of carriages an 
hour before midnight, up the classic mount of St. 
James and along Piccadilly, intimated that the 
world were received at some grand entertainment 
in Arlington Street. 

It was the town mansion of the noble family 
beneath whose roof atBeaumanoir we have more 
than once introduced the reader, to gain whose 
courtyard was at this moment the object of emu- 
lous coachmen, and to enter whose saloons was 
to reward the martyr-like patience of their lords 
and ladies. 

Among the fortunate who had already suc- 
ceeded in bowing to their hostess were two gen- 
tlemen, who, ensconced in a good position, sur- 
veyed the scene, and made their observations on 
the passing guests. They were gentlemen who, 
to judge from their general air and the great con- 
sideration with which they were treated by those 
who were occasionally in their vicinity, were per- 
sonages whose criticism bore authority. 

“ I say, Jemmy,” said the eldest, a dandy who 
had dined with the Regent, but who was still a 
dandy, and who enjoyed life almost as much as in 
the days when Carlton House occupied the ter- 
race which still bears its name — “I say, Jemmy, 
what a load of young fellows there are ! Don’t 
know their names at all. Begin to think fellows 
are younger than they used to be. Amazing load 
of young fellows, indeed ! ” 

At this moment an individual who came under 
the fortunate designation of a young fellow, but 
whose assured carriage hardly intimated that this 
was his first season in London, came up to the 
junior of the two critics, and said, “ A pretty turn 
you played us yesterday at White’s, Melton. We 
waited dinner nearly an hour.” 

“ Mv dear fellow, I am infinitely sorry ; but I 
was obliged to go down to Windsor, and I missed 
the return train. A good dinner ? Who had 
you ? ” 

“A capital party, only you were wanted. 
We had Beaumanoir and Yere and Jack Tufton, 
and Spraggs.” 

“ Was Spraggs rich ? ” 

“Wasn’t he! I have not done laughing yet. 
He told us a story about the little Biron who was 
over here last year — I knew her at Paris — and 
an Indian screen. Killing ! Get him to tell it 
you. The richest thing you ever heard ! ” 

“Who’s your friend?” inquired Mr. Melton’s 
companion, as the young man moved away. 

“ Sir Charles Buckhurst.” 

“ A — h ! That is Sir Charles Buckhurst. 
Glad to have seen him. They say he is going 
it.” 

“ He knows what he is about.” 

“ Egad ! so they all do. A young fellow now 
of two or three and twenty knows the world 
as men used to do after as many years of scrapes. 


9 


130 


CONINGSBY. 


I wonder where there is such a thing as a green- 
horn. E(He Crabbs savs the reason he gives up 
his house is, that he has cleaned out the old gen- 
eration, and that the new generation would clean 
him.” 

“ Buckhurst is not in that sort of way : he 
swears by Henry Sydney, a younger son of the 
duke, whom you don’t know ; and young Con- 
ingsby ; a sort of new set ; new ideas and all that 
sort of thing. Beau tells me a good deal about 
it; and when I was staying with the Evering- 
hams, at Easter, they were full of it. Coningsby 
had just returned from his travels, and they were 
quite on the gui vive. Lady Everingham is one 
of their set. I don’t know what it is exactly ; 
but I think we shall hear more of it.” 

“A sort of animal magnetism, or unknown 
tongues, I take it from your description,” said his 
companion. 

“Well, I don’t know what it is,” said Mr. 
Melton ; “ but it has got hold of all the young 
fellows who have just come out. Beau is a little 
bit himself. I had some idea of giving my mind 
to it, they made such a fuss about it at Evering- 
ham, but it requires a devilish deal of history, I 
believe, and all that sort of thing.” 

“ Ah ! that’s a bore,” said his companion. 
“ It’s difficult to turn to with a new thing when 
you are not in the habit of it. I never could man- 
age charades.” 

Mr. Ormsby, passing by, stopped. “ They 
told me you had the gout, Cassilis ? ” he said to 
Mr. Melton’s companion. 

“ So I had ; but I have found out a fellow 
who cures the gout instanter. Tom Needham 
sent him to me. A German fellow. Pumice- 
stone pills ; sort of a charm, I believe, and all 
that kind of thing : they say it rubs the gout out 
of you. I sent him to Luxborough, who was very 
bad ; cured him directly. Luxborough swears by 
him.” 

“ Luxborough believes in the Millennium,” 
said Mr. Ormsby. 

“ But here’s a new thing that Melton has been 
telling me of, that all the world is going to believe 
in,” said Mr. Cassilis ; “ something patronised by 
Lady Everingham.” 

“ A very good patroness,” said Mr. Ormsby. 

“ Have you heard anything about it ? ” con- 
tinued Mr. Cassilis. “Young Coningsby brought 
it from abroad ; didn’t you say so, Jemmy ? ” 

“ No, no, my dear fellow ; it is not at all that 
sort of thing.” 

“ But they say it requires a deuced deal of 
history,” continued Mr. Cassilis. “ One must 
brush up one’s Goldsmith. Canterton used to be 
the fellow for history at White’s. He was always 
boring one with William the Conqueror, Julius 
Caesar, and all that sort of thing.” 

“ I tell you what,” said Mr. Ormsby, looking 
both sly and solemn, “ I should not be surprised 
if, some day or another, we have a history about 
Lady Everingham and young Coningsby.” 

“ Poh ! ” said Mr. Melton ; “ he is engaged 
to be married to her sister, Lady Theresa.” 

“ The deuce !” said Mr. Ormsby ; “ well, you 
are a friend of the family, and I suppose you 
know.” 

“ He is a devilish good-looking fellow, that 
■young Coningsby,” said Mr. Cassilis. « All the 


women are in love with him, they say. Lady 
Eleanor Ducie quite raves about him.” 

“ By the bye, his grandfather has been very 
unwell,” said Mr. Ormsby, looking mysteriously. 

“ I saw Lady Monmouth here just now,” said 
Mr. Melton. 

“ Oh ! he is quite well again,” said Mr. 
Ormsby. 

“ Got an odd story at White’s that Lord 
Monmouth was going to separate from her,” said 
Mr. Cassilis. 

“No foundation,” said Mr. Ormsby, shaking 
his head. 

“ They are not going to separate, I believe,” 
said Mr. Melton ; “ but I rather think there was 
a foundation for the rumor.” 

Mr. Ormsby still shook his head. 

“Well,” continued Mr. Melton, “all I know 
is, that it was looked upon last winter at Paris as 
a settled thing.” 

“ There was some story about some Hun- 
garian,” said Mr. Cassilis. 

“ No, that blew over,” said Mr. Melton ; “ it 
was Trautsmansdorff the row was about.” 

All this time Mr. Ormsby, as the friend of 
Lord and Lady Monmouth, remained shaking his 
head ; but as a member of society, and therefore 
delighting in small scandal, appropriating the 
gossip with the greatest avidity. 

“ I should think old Monmouth was not the 
sort of fellow to blow up a woman,” said Mr. 
Cassilis. 

“ Provided she would leave him quietly,” said 
Mr. Melton. 

“ Yes, Lord Monmouth never could live with 
a woman more than two years,” said Mr. Ormsby, 
pensively. “And that I thought at the time 
rather an objection to his marriage.” 

We must now briefly revert to what befel our 
hero after those unhappy occurrences in the midst 
of whose first woe we left him. 

The day after the arrival of Mr. Rigby at the 
castle, Coningsby quitted it for London ; and be- 
fore a week had elapsed had embarked for Cadiz. 
He felt a romantic interest in visiting the land to 
which Edith owed some blood, and in acquiring 
the language which he had often admired as she 
spoke it. A favorable opportunity permitted 
him in the autumn to visit Athens and the 
Aegean, which he much desired. In the pensive 
beauties of that delicate land, where perpetual 
autumn seems to reign, Coningsby found solace. 
There is something in the character of Grecian 
scenery which blends with the humor of the 
melancholy, and the feelings of the sorrowful. 
Coningsby passed his winter at Rome. The wish 
of his grandfather had rendered it necessary for 
him to return to England somewhat abruptly. 
Lord Monmouth had not visited his native coun- 
try since his marriage ; but the period that had 
elapsed since that event had considerably im- 
proved the prospects of his party. The majority 
of the Whig Cabinet in the House of Commons 
by 1840 had become little more than nominal ; 
and though it was circulated among their friends, 
as if from the highest authority, that “ one was 
enough,” there seemed daily a better chance of 
their being deprived even of that magical unit. 
For the first time in the history of this country 
since the introduction of the system of parlia- 


VALUABLE SERVICES OF LADY EVERINGHAM. 


131 


mentary sovereignty, the Government of Eng- 
land depended on the fate of single elections ; 
and, indeed, by a single vote, it is remarkable to 
observe, the fate of the Whig Government was 
ultimately decided. 

This critical state of affairs, duly reported to 
Lord Monmouth, revived his political passions, 
and offered him that excitement which he was 
ever seeking, and yet for which he had often 
sighed. The Marquess, too, was weary of Paris. 
Every day he found it more difficult to be amused. 
Lucretia had lost her charm. He, from whom 
nothing could be concealed, perceived that often, 
while she elaborately attempted to divert him, 
her mind was wandering elsewhere. Lord Mon- 
mouth was quite superior to all petty jealousy 
and the vulgar feelings of inferior mortals, but 
his sublime selfishness required devotion. He 
had calculated that a wife or a mistress who 
might be in love with another man, however 
powerfully their interests might prompt them, 
could not be so agreeable or amusing to their 
friends and husbands, as if they had no such dis- 
tracting hold upon their hearts or their fancy. 
Latterly at Paris, while Lucretia became each 
day more involved in the vortex of society, 
where all admired and some adored her, Lord 
Monmouth fell into the easy habit of dining in 
his private rooms, sometimes tete-&-tete with 
Villebecque, whose inexhaustible tales and ad- 
ventures about a kind of society which Lord 
Monmouth had always preferred infinitely to the 
polished and somewhat insipid circles in which 
lie was born, had rendered him the prime favor- 
ite of his great patron. Sometimes Villebecque, 
too, brought a friend, male or otherwise, whom 
he thought invested with the rare faculty of dis- 
traction ; Lord Monmouth cared not who or 
what they were, provided they were diverting. 

Villebecque had written to Coningsby at 
Rome, by his grandfather’s desire, to beg him to 
return to England and meet Lord Monmouth 
there. The letter was couched with all the re- 
spect and good feeling which Villebecque really 
entertained for him whom he addressed ; still 
a letter on such a subject from such a per- 
son wa3 not agreeable to Coningsby, and his re- 
pljj to it was direct to his grandfather; Lord 
Monmouth, however, had entirely given over 
writing letters. 

Coningsby had met at Paris, on his way to 
England, Lord and Lady Everingham, and he 
had returned with them. This revival of an old 
acquaintance was both agreeable and fortunate 
for our hero. The vivacity of a clever and 
charming woman pleasantly disturbed the brood- 
ing memory of Coningsby. There is no mortifi- 
cation however keen, no misery however des- 
perate, which the spirit of woman cannot in some 
degree lighten or alleviate. About, too, to make 
his formal entrance into the great world, he 
could not have secured a more valuable and ac- 
complished female friend. She gave him every 
instruction, every intimation that was necessary ; 
cleared the social difficulties which in some de- 
gree are experienced on their entrance into the 
world even bv the most highly connected, unless 
tliev have this benign assistance ; planted him 
immediately in the position which was expedient; 
took care that he was invited at once to the right 


houses; and, with the aid of her husband, that 
he should become a member of the right clubs. 

“ And who is to have the blue ribbon, Lord 
Eskdale ?” said the Duchess to that noblemau, 
as he entered and approached to pay his re- 
spects. 

“ If I were Melbourne, I would keep it open,” 
replied his Lordship. “ It is a mistake to give 
away too quickly.” 

“ But suppose they go out,” said her Grace. 

“ Oh ! there is always a last day to clear the 
House. But they will be in another year. The 
cliff will not be sapped before then. We made a 
mistake last year about the ladies.” 

“ I know you always thought so.” 

“ Quarrels about women are always a mistake. 
One should make it a rule to give up to them, 
and then they are sure to give up to us.” 

“ You have no great faith in our firmness ? ” 

“ Male firmness is very often obstinacy ; 
women have always something better, worth all 
qualities — they have tact.” 

“ A compliment to the sex from so finished a 
critic as Lord Eskdale is appreciated.” * 

But at this moment the arrival of some 
guests terminated the conversation, and Lord 
Eskdale moved away, and approached a group 
which Lady Everingham was enlightening. 

“ My dear Lord Fitz-booby,” her ladyship ob- 
served, “ in politics we require faith as well as 
in all other things.” 

Lord Fitz-booby looked rather perplexed ; 
but, possessed of considerable official experience, 
having held very high posts, some in the cabinet, 
for nearly a quarter of a century, he was too 
versed to acknowledge that he had not understood 
a single word that had been addressed to him for 
the last ten minutes. He looked on with the same 
grave, attentive stolidity, occasionally nodding his 
head, as he was wont of yore when he received a 
deputation on sugar duties or joint-stock banks, 
and when he made, as was his custom when par- 
ticularly perplexed, an occasional note on a sheet 
of foolscap paper. 

“An Opposition in an age of revolution,” 
continued Lady Everingham, “ must be founded 
on principles. It cannot depend on mere person- 
al ability and party address taking advantage of 
circumstances. You have not enunciated a prin- 
ciple for the last ten years; and when you seemed 
on the point of acceding to power, it was not on a 
great question of national interest, but a techni- 
cal dispute respecting the constitution of an ex- 
hausted sugar colony.” 

“ If you are a Conservative party, we wish to 
know what you want to conserve ? ” said Lord 
Yere. 

“ If it had not been for the Whig abolition of 
slavery,” said Lord Fitz-booby, goaded into repar- 
tee, “ Jamaica would not have been an exhausted 
sugar colony.” 

“ Then what you do want to conserve is sla- 
very,” said Lord Vere. 

“ No,” said Lord Fitz-booby, “ I am never 
for retracing our steps.” 

“ But will you advance, will you move? And 
where will you advance, and how will you 
move ? ” said Lady Everingham. 

“ I think we have had quite enough of ad- 
vancing,” said his Lordship. “ I had no idea 


132 


CONINGSBY. 


your ladyship was a member of the Movement 
party,” he added, with a sarcastic grin. 

“But if it were bad, Lord Fitz-booby, to 
move where we are, as you and your friends have 
always maintained, how can you reconcile it to 
principle to remain there? ” said Lord Vere. 

“ I would make the best of a bad bargain,” 
said Lord Fitz-booby. “With a Conservative 
government, a reformed Constitution would be 
less dangerous.” 

“ Why ? ” said Lady Everingham. “ What 
are your distinctive principles that render the 
peril less ? ” 

“I appeal to Lord Eskdale,” said Lord Fitz- 
booby ; “ there is Lady Everingham turned quite 
a Radical, I declare. Is not your Lordship of 
opinion that the country must be safer with a 
Conservative government than with a Liberal ? ” 

“ I think the country is always tolerably se- 
cure,” said Lord Eskdale. 

Lady Theresa, leaning on the arm of Mr. 
Lyle, came up at this moment, and unconsciously 
made a diversion in favor of Lord Fitz-booby. 

•“ Pray, Theresa,” said Lady Everingham, 
“ where is Mr. Coningsby ? ” 

Let us endeavor to ascertain. It so happened 
that on this day Coningsby and Henry Sydney 
dined at Grillion’s, at an university club, where, 
among many friends whom Coningsby had not 
met for a long time, and among delightful reminis- 
cences, the unconscious hours stole on. It was 
late when they quitted Grillion’s, and Coningsby’s 
brougham was detained for a considerable time 
before its driver could insinuate himself into the 
line, which indeed he would never have succeeded 
in doing, had not he fortunately come across the 
coachman of the Duke of Agincourt, who, being 
of the same politics as himself, belonging to the 
same club, and always black-balling the same 
men, let him in from a legitimate party feeling ; so 
they arrived in Arlington Street at a very late 
hour. 

Coningsby was springing up the staircase, 
now not so crowded as it had been, and met a 
retiring party; he was about to say a passing 
word to a gentleman as he went by, when, sud- 
denly, Coningsby turned deadly pale. The gentle- 
man could hardly be the cause, for it was the 
gracious and handsome presence of Lord Beau- 
manoir ; the lady resting on his arm was Edith. 
They moved on while he was motionless ; yet 
Edith and himself had exchanged glances. Ilis 
was one of astonishment ; but what was the ex- 
pression of hers ? She must have recognised 
him before lie had observed her. She was col- 
lected, and she expressed the purpose of her mind 
in a distant and haughty recognition. Coningsby 
remained for a moment stupified ; then suddenly 
turning back, he bounded down stairs, and hurried 
into the cloak-room. He met Lady Wallinger ; 
he spoke rapidly, he held her hand, did not listen 
to her answers, his eyes wandered about. There 
were many persons present, at length he recog- 
nised Edith enveloped in her mantle. He went 
forward, he looked at her, as if he would have 
read her soul ; he said something. She changed 
color as he addressed her ; but seemed instantly 
by an effort to rally and regain her equanimity ; 
replied to his inquiries with extreme brevity, and 
Lady Wallinger’s carriage being announced, 


moved away with the same slight haughty salute 
as before on the arm of Lord Beaumanoir. 


CHAPTER II. 

Sadness fell over the once happy family of 
Millbank after the departure of Coningsby from 
Hellingsley. When the first pang was over, Edith 
had found some solace in the sympathy of her 
aunt, who had always appreciated and admired 
Coningsby ; but it was a sympathy which aspired 
only to soften sorrow, and not to create hope. 
But Lady Wallinger, though she lengthened her 
visit for the sake of her niece, in time quitted 
them ; and then the name of Coningsby was never 
heard by Edith. Her brother, shortly after the 
sorrowful and abrupt departure of his friend, had 
gone to the factories where he remained, and of 
which, in future, it was intended that he should 
assume the principal direction. Mr. Millbank 
himself, sustained at first by the society of his 
friend Sir Joseph, to whom he was attached, and 
occupied with daily reports from his establish- 
ments and the transaction of the affairs of his 
numerous and busy constituents, was for a while 
scarcely conscious of the alteration which had 
taken place in the demeanor of his daughter. 
But when they were once more alone together, it 
was impossible any longer to be blind to the great 
change. That happy and equable gaiety of spirit, 
which seemed to spring from an innocent enjoy- 
ment of existence, and which had ever distin- 
guished Edith, was wanting. Her sunuy glance 
was gone. She was not indeed always moody 
and dispirited, but she was fitful, unequal in her 
tone. That temper whose sweetness had been a 
domestic proverb, had become a little uncertain. 
Not that her affection for her father was dimin- 
ished, but there were snatches of unusual irrita- 
bility which momentarily escaped her, followed 
by bursts of tenderness that were the creatures of 
compunction. And often, after some hasty word, 
she would throw her arms round her father’s 
neck with the fondness of remorse. She pursued 
her usual avocations, for she had really too well 
regulated a mind, she was in truth a person fof 
too strong an intellect, to neglect any source of 
occupation and distraction. Her flowers, her 
pencil, and her books supplied her with these ; 
and music soothed, and at times beguiled, her 
agitated thoughts. But there was no joy in the 
house, and in time Mr. Millbank felt it. 

Mr. Millbank was vexed, irritated, grieved. 
Edith, his Edith, the pride and delight of his exist- 
ence, who had been to him only a source of ex- 
ultation and felicity, was no longer happy, was 
perhaps pining away ; and there was the appear- 
ance, the unjust appearance that he, her fond 
father, was the cause and occasion of all this 
wretchedness. It would appear that the name of 
Coningsby, to which he now owed a great debt of 
gratitude, was still doomed to bear him mortifica- 
tion and misery. Truly had the young man said 
that there was a curse upon their two families. 
And yet, on reflection, it still seemed to Mr. Mill- 
bank that he had acted with as much wisdom and 
real kindness as decision. How otherwise was he 
to have acted? The union was impossible; the 


EDITH UNDER THE AUSPICES OF IIER AUNT. 


speedier their separation, therefore, clearly the 
better. Unfortunate, indeed, had been his ab- 
sence from Hellingsley ; unquestionably his pres- 
ence might have prevented the catastrophe. Os- 
wald should have hindered all this. And yet 
Mr. Millbank could not shut his eyes to the devo- 
tion of his son to Coningsby. He felt he could 
count on no assistance in this respect from that 
quarter. Yet how hard upon him that he should 
seem to figure as a despot or a tyrant to his own 
children whom he loved, when he had absolutely 
acted in an inevitable manner ! Edith seemed 
sad, Oswald sullen ; all was changed. All the 
objects for which this clear-headed, strong-mind- 
ed, kind-hearted man had been working all his 
life, seemed to be frustrated. And why ? Be- 
cause a young man had made love to his daugh- 
ter, who was really in no manner entitled to do 
so. 

As the autumn drew on, Mr. Millbank found 
Hellingsley, under existing circumstances, ex- 
tremely wearisome; and he proposed to his 
daughter that they should pay a visit to their 
earlier home. Edith assented without difficulty, 
but without interest. And yet, as Mr. Millbank 
immediately perceived, the change was a judicious 
one ; for certainly the spirits of Edith seemed to 
improve after her return to their valley. There 
were more objects of interest ; change, too, is al- 
ways beneficial. If Mr. Millbank had been aware 
that Oswald had received a letter from Conings- 
by, written before he quitted Spain, perhaps he 
might have recognised a more satisfactory reason 
for the transient liveliness of his daughter which 
had so greatly gratified him. 

About a month after Christmas, the meeting 
of Parliament summoned Mr. Millbank up to 
London ; and he had wished Edith to accompany 
him. But London in February to Edith, without 
friends or connexions, her father always occupied 
and absent from her day and night, seemed to 
them all, on reflection, to be a life not very con- 
ducive to health or cheerfulness, and therefore 
she remained with her brother. Osw r ald had 
heard from Coningsby again from Rome ; but at 
the period he w r rote he did not anticipate his re- 
turn to England. His tone was affectionate, but 
dispirited. 

Lady Wallinger went up to London after 
Easter for the season, and Mr. Millbank, now 
that there was a constant companion for his 
daughter, took a house and carried Edith back 
with him to London. Lady Wallinger, who had 
great wealth and great tact, had obtained by de- 
grees a not inconsiderable position in society. 
She had a fine house in a fashionable situation, 
and gave profuse entertainments. The Whigs 
were under obligations to her husband, and the 
great Whig ladies were gratified to find in his 
wife a polished and pleasing person, to whom 
they could be courteous without any annoyance. 
So that Edith, under the auspices of her aunt, 
found herself at once in circles which otherwise 
she might not easily have entered, but which her 
beauty, grace, and experience of the most refined 
society of the Continent, qualified her to shine in. 
One evening they met the Marquis of Beauma- 
noir, their friend of Rome and Paris, and admirer 
of Edith, who from that time w r as seldom from 
their side. His mother, the Duchess, immediate- 


133 

ly called both on the Millbanks and the Wallin- 
gers ; glad, not only to please her son, but to ex- 
press that consideration for Mr. Millbank which 
the Duke always wished to shew. It was, how- 
ever, of no use ; nothing would induce Mr. Mill- 
bank ever to enter what he called aristocratic so- 
ciety. He liked the House of Commons ; never 
paired off ; never missed a moment of it ; worked 
at committees all the morning, listened attentive- 
ly to debates all the night ; always dined at Bella- 
my’s when there was a house ; and when there was 
not, liked dining at the Goldsmiths’ Company, the 
Russia Company, great Emigration banquets, and 
other joint-stock festivities. That was his idea 
of rational society ; business and pleasure com- 
bined ; a good dinner, and good speeches after- 
wards. 

Edith was aware that Coningsby had returned 
to England, for her brother had heard from him 
on his arrival ; but Oswald had not heard since. 
A season in London only represented in the mind 
of Edith the chance, perhaps the certainty, of 
meeting Coningsby again ; of communing togeth- 
er over the catastrophe of last summer; of 
soothing and solacing each other’s unhappiness, 
and perhaps, with the sanguine imagination of 
youth, foreseeing a more felicitous future. She 
had been nearly a fortnight in towm, and though 
moving frequently in the same circles as Conings- 
by, they had not yet met. It was one of those 
results which could rarely occur ; but even 
chance enters too frequently in the league against 

lovers. The invitation to the assembly at 

House was therefore peculiarly gratifying to 
Edith, since she could scarcely doubt that if 
Coningsby were in town, which her casual inqui- 
ries of Lord Beaumanoir induced her to believe 
was the case, he would be present. Never, there- 
fore, had she repaired to an assembly with such a 
fluttering spirit ; and yet there was a fascinating 
anxiety about it that bewilders the young heart. 

In vain Edith surveyed the rooms to catch 
the form of that being, whom for a moment she 
had never ceased to cherish and muse over. He 
was not there ; and at the very moment, when, 
disappointed and mortified, she most required 
solace, she learned from Mr. Melton that Lady 
Theresa Sydney, whom she chanced to admire, 
was going to be married, and to Mr. Coningsby ! 

What a revelation ! His silence, perhaps his 
shunning of her, were no longer inexplicable. 
What a return for all her romantic devotion in 
her sad solitude at Hellingsley ! Was this the end 
of their twilight rambles, and the sweet pathos 
of their mutual loves ? There seemed to be no 
truth in man, no joy in life ! All the feelings 
that she had so generously lavished, all returned 
upon herself. She could have burst into a pas- 
sion of tears and buried herself in a cloister. 

Instead of that, civilisation made her listen 
with a serene though tortured countenance ; but 
as soon as it was in her power, pleading a head- 
ache to Lady Wallinger, she effected, or thought 
she had effected, her escape from a scene which 
harrowed her heart. 

As for Coningsby, he passed a sleepless night ; 
agitated by the unexpected presence of Edith and 
distracted by the manner in which she had re- 
ceived him. To say that her appearance had 
revived all his passionate affection for her would 


134 


CON IN G SB Y. 


convey an unjust impression of the nature of his 
feelings. His affection had never for a moment 
swerved ; it was profound and firm. But un- 
questionably thi3 sudden vision had brought be- 
fore him, in startling and more vivid colors, the 
relations that subsisted between them. There 
was the being whom he loved and who loved 
him ; and whatever were the barriers which the 
circumstances of life placed against their union, 
they were partakers of the solemn sacrament of 
an unpolluted heart. 

Coningsby, as we have mentioned, had signi- 
fied to Oswald his return to England : he had 
hitherto oijiitted to write again ; not because his 
spirit faltered, but he was wearied of whispering 
hope without foundation, and mourning over his 
chagrined fortunes. Once more in England, once 
more placed in communication with his grand- 
father, he felt with increased conviction the diffi- 
culties which surrounded him. The society of 
Lady Everingham and her sister, who had been 
at the same time her visitor, had been a relaxa- 
tion, and a beneficial one, to a mind suffering too 
much from the tension of one idea. But Con- 
ingsby had treated the matrimonial project of his 
gay-minded hostess with the courteous levity in 
which he believed it had at first half originated. 
He admired and liked Lady Theresa; but there 
was a reason why he could not marry her, even 
had his own heart not been absorbed by one of 
those passions from which men of deep and ear- 
nest character never emancipate themselves. 

After musing and meditating again and again 
over everything that had occurred, Coniugsby 
fell asleep when the morning had far advanced, 
resolved to rise when a little refreshed and find 
out Lady Wallinger, who, he felt sure, would re- 
ceive him with kindness. 

Yet it was fated that this step should not be 
taken, for while he was at breakfast, his servant 
brought him a letter from Monmouth House, ap- 
prising him that his grandfather wished to see 
him as soon as possible on urgent business. 


CHAPTER III. 

Lord Monmouth was sitting in the same 
dressing-room in which he was first introduced 
to the reader ; on the table were several packets 
of papers that were open and in course of refer- 
ence; and he dictated his observations to Mon- 
sieur Villebecque, who was writing at his left 
hand. 

Thus were they occupied when Coningsby 
was ushered into the room. 

“You see, Harry,” said Lord Monmouth, 
“ that I am much occupied to-day, yet the busi- 
ness on which I wish to communicate with you 
is so pressing that it could not be postponed.” 
He made a sign to Yillebecque, and his secretary 
instantly retired. 

“ I was right in pressing your return to Eng- 
land,” continued Lord Monmouth to his grand- 
son, who was a little anxious as to the impending 
communication, which he could not in any way 
anticipate. “ These are not times when young 
men should be out of sight. Your public career 
will commence immediately. The Government 


have resolved on a dissolution. My information 
is from the highest quarter. You may be aston- 
ished, but it is a fact. They are going to dissolve 
their own House of Commons. Notwithstanding 
this and the Queen’s name, we can beat them ; 
but the race requires the finest jockeying. We 
can’t give a point. Tadpole has been here to me 
about Darlford ; he came specially with a mes- 
sage, I may say an appeal, from one to whom I 
can refuse nothing ; the Government count on 
the seat, though with the new Registration ’tis 
nearly a tie. If we had a good candidate we 
could win. But Rigby won’t do. He is too 
much of the old clique ; used up ; a hack ; besides, 
a beaten horse. We are assured the name of 
Coningsby would be a host ; there is a considera- 
ble section who support the present fellow who 
will not vote against a Coningsby. They have 
thought of you as a fit person, and I have ap- 
proved of the suggestion. You will, therefore, 
be the candidate for Darlford with my entire 
sanction and support, and I have no doubt you 
will be successful. You may be sure I shall 
spare nothing : and it will be very gratifying to 
me, after being robbed of all our boroughs, that 
the only Coningsby who cares to enter Parlia- 
ment, should nevertheless be able to do so as 
early as I could fairly desire.” 

Coningsby the rival of Mr. Millbank on the 
hustings of Darlford ! Vanquished or victorious, 
equally a catastrophe ! The fierce passions, the 
gross insults, the hot blood and the cool lies, the 
ruffianism and the ribaldry, perhaps the domestic 
discomfiture and mortification, which he was 
about to be the means of bringing on the roof he 
loved best in the world, occurred to him with 
anguish. The countenance of Edith, haughty 
and mournful as last night, rose to him again. 
He saw her canvassing for her father, and against 
him. Madness ! And for what was he to make 
this terrible and costly sacrifice ? For his ambi- 
tion ? Not even for that Divinity or Daemon for 
which we all immolate so much ! Mighty ambi- 
tion, forsooth, to succeed to the Rigbys ! To 
enter the House of Commons a slave and a tool ; 
to move according to instructions, and to labor 
for the low designs of petty spirits, without even 
the consolation of being a dupe. What sympa- 
thy could there exist between Coningsby and 
the “great Conservative party,” that for ten 
years in an age of revolution had never promul- 
gated a principle; whose only intelligible and 
consistent policy seemed to be an attempt, very 
grateful of course to the feelings of an English 
Royalist, to revive Irish Puritanism ; who when 
in power in 1835 had used that power only to 
eviuce their utter ignorance of Church princi- 
ples ; and who were at this moment, when Con- 
ingsby was formally solicited to join their ranks, 
in open insurrection against the prerogatives of 
the English Monarchy ? 

“Do you anticipate then an immediate disso- 
lution, sir?” inquired Coningsby, after a mo- 
ment’s pause. 

“We must anticipate it; though I think it 
doubtful. It may be next month fit may be in 
the autumn; they may tide over another year, as 
Lord Eskdale thinks, and his opinion always 
weighs with me. He is very safe. Tadpole be- 
lieves they will dissolve at once. But whether 


A POLITICAL DISAGREEMENT. 


135 


they dissolve now, or in a month’s time, or in the 
autumn, or next year, our course is clear. We 
must declare our intentions immediately. We 
must hoist our flag. Monday next, there is a 
great Conservative dinner at Darlford. You must 
attend it ; that will be the finest opportunity in 
the world for you to announce yourself.” 

“ Don’t you think, sir,” said Coningsby, “ that 
such an announcement would be rather premature ? 
It is, in fact, embarking in a contest which may 
last a year ; perhaps more.” 

“ What you say is very true,” said Lord Mon- 
mouth; “ no doubt it is very troublesome ; very 
disgusting ; any canvassing is. But we must 
take things as we find them. You cannot get 
into Parliament now in the good old gentleman- 
like way ; and we ought to be thankful that this 
interest has been fostered for our purpose.” 

Coningsby looked on the carpet, cleared his 
throat as if about to speak, and then gave some- 
thing like a sigh. 

“ I think you had better be off the day after 
to-morrow,” said Lord Monmouth. “ I have sent 
instructions to the steward to do all he can in so 
short a time, for I wish you to entertain the prin- 
cipal people.” 

“ You are most kind, you are always most 
kind to me, dear sir,” said Coningsby, in a hesi- 
tating tone, and with an air of great embarrass- 
ment, “ but, in truth, I have no wish to enter 
Parliament.” 

“ What ? ” said Lord Monmouth. 

“ I feel that I am not yet sufficiently prepared 
for so great a responsibility as a seat in the House 
of Commous,” said Coningsby. 

“ Responsibility ! ” said Lord Monmouth, 
smiling. “ What responsibility is there ? How 
can any one have a more agreeable seat ? The 
only person to whom you are responsible is your 
own relation, who briugs you in. And I don’t 
suppose there can be any difference on any point 
between us. You are certainly still young; but 
I was younger by nearly two years when I first 
went in ; and I found no difficulty. There can 
be no difficulty. All you have got to do is to vote 
with your party. As for speaking, if you have a 
talent that way, take my advice ; don’t be in a 
hurry. Learn to know the House; learn the 
House to know you. If a man be discreet, he 
cannot enter Parliament too soon.” 

“ It is not exactly that, sir,” said Coningsby. 

“Then what is it, my dear Harry? You see 
to-day I have much to do ; yet as your business 
is pressing, I would not postpone seeing you an 
hour. I thought you would have been very much 
gratified.” 

“ You mentioned that I had nothing to do but 
to vote with my party, sir,” replied Coningsby. 
“ You mean, of course, by that term what is un- 
derstood by the Conservative party ? ” 

“Of course; our friends.” 

“I am sorry,” said Coningsby, rather pale, 
but speaking with firmness, “ I am sorry that I 
could not support the Conservative party.” 

“By — ! ” exclaimed Lord Monmouth, start- 
ing in his seat, “ some woman has got hold of 
him, and made him a Whig ! ” 

“ No, my dear grandfather,” said Coningsby, 
scarcely able to repress a smile, serious as the in- 
terview was becoming, “ nothing of the kind, 


I assure you. No person can be more anti- 
Whig.” 

“ I don’t know what you are driving at, sir,” 
said Lord Monmouth, in a hard, dry tone. 

“ I wish to be frank, sir,” said Coningsby, 
“and am very sensible of your goodness in per- 
mitting me to speak to you on the subject. What 
I mean to say is, that I have for a long time 
looked upon the Conservative party as a body 
who have betrayed their trust ; more from ig- 
norance I admit than from design ; yet clearly a 
body of individuals totally unequal to the exi- 
gencies of the epoch, and indeed unconscious of 
its real character.” 

“ You mean giving up those Irish corpora- 
tions ? ” said Lord Monmouth. “ Well, between 
ourselves, I am quite of the same opinion. But 
we must mount higher ; we must go to — 28 for 
the real mischief. But what is the use of lament- 
ing the past? Peel is the only man; suited to 
the times and all that — at least we must say so, 
and try to believe so ; we can’t go back. And it 
is our own fault that we have let the chief power 
out of the hands of our own order. It was never 
thought of in the time of your great-grandfather, 
sir. And if a commoner w r ere for a season per- 
mitted to be the nominal Premier to do the de- 
tail, there was always a secret committee of great 
1688 nobles to give him his instructions.” 

“I should be very sorry to see secret commit- 
tees of great 1688 nobles again,” said Coningsby. 

“Then what the devil do you w r ant to see? ” 
said Lord Monmouth. 

“ Political faith,” said Coningsby, “ instead 
of political infidelity.” 

Hem ! ” said Lord Monmouth. 

“ Before I support Conservative principles,” 
continued Coningsby, “ I merely wish to be in- 
formed what those principles aim to conserve. 
It would not appear to be the prerogative of the 
Crown, since the principal portion of a Conserva- 
tive oration now is an invective against a late 
royal act which they describe as a Bed-chamber 
plot. Is it the Church which they wish to con- 
serve ? What is a threatened Appropriation 
Clause against an actual Church Commission in 
the hands of Parliamentary Laymen ? Could the 
Long Parliament have done worse ? Well, then, 
if it’s neither the Crown nor the Church, whose 
rights and privileges this Conservative party pro- 
pose to vindicate, is it your House, the House of 
Lords, whose powers they are prepared to uphold ? 
Is it not notorious that the very man whom you 
have elected as your leader in that House, declares 
among his Conservative adherents, that hence- 
forth the assembly that used to furnish those very 
Committees of great revolution nobles that you 
mention, is to initiate nothing ; and, without a 
struggle, is to subside into that undisturbed re- 
pose which resembles the Imperial tranquillity 
that secured the frontiers by paying tribute ? ” 

“ All this is vastly fine,” said Lord Monmouth ; 
“ but I see no means by which I can attain my 
object but by supporting Peel. After all, what 
is the end of all parties and all politics ? To gain 
your object. I want to turn our coronet into a 
ducal one, and to get your grandmother’s barony 
called out of abeyance in your favor. It is im- 
possible that Peel can refuse me. I have already 
purchased an ample estate with the view of en- 


136 


CONINGSBY. 


tailing it on you and your issue. You will make 
a considerable alliance; you may marry, if you 
please, Lady Theresa Sydney. ,1 hear the report 
with pleasure. Count on my at once entering into 
any arrangement conducive to your happiness.” 

“ My dear grandfather, you have ever been to 
me only too kind and generous.” 

“ To whom should I be kind but to you, my 
own blood, that has never crossed me, and of 
whom I have reason to be proud? Yes, Harry, 
it gratifies me to hear you admired and to learn 
your success. All I want now is to see you in 
Parliament. A man should be in Parliament 
early. There is a sort of stiffness about every 
man, no matter what may be his talents, who 
enters Parliament late in life; and now, fortu- 
nately, the occasion offers. You will go down on 
Friday ; feed the notabilities well ; speak out ; 
praise Peel ; abuse O’Connell and the ladies of 
the Bed-chamber ; anathematise all waverers ; 
say a good deal about Ireland ; stick to the Irish 
Registration Bill — that’s a good card ; and, above 
all, my dear Harry, don’t spare that fellow Mill- 
bank. Remember, in turning him out you not 
only gain a vote for the Conservative cause and 
our coronet, but you crush my foe. Spare noth- 
ing for that object ; I count on you, boy.” 

“ I should grieve to be backward in anything 
that concerned your interest or your honor, sir,” 
said Coningsby, with an air of great embarrass- 
ment. 

“I am sure you would, lam sure you would,” 
said Lord Monmouth, in a tone of some kindness. 

“ And I feel at this moment,” continued Con- 
ingsby, “ that there is no personal sacrifice which 
I am not prepared to make for them, except one. 
My interests, my affections, they should not be 
placed in the balance, if yours, sir, were at stake, 
though there are circumstances which might in- 
volve me in a position of as much mental distress 
as a man could well endure; but I claim for my 
convictions, my dear grandfather, a generous tol- 
erance.” 

“ I can’t follow you, sir,” said Lord Mon- 
mouth, again in his hard tone. “Our interests 
are inseparable, and therefore there can never be 
any sacrifice of conduct on your part. What you 
mean by sacrifice of affections, I don’t compre- 
hend ; but as for your opinions, you have no busi- 
ness to have any other than those I uphold. You 
are too young to form opinions.” 

“ I am sure I -wish to express them with no 
unbecoming confidence,” replied Coningsby ; “ I 
have never intruded them on your ear before; 
but this being an occasion when you yourself 
said, sir, I was about to commence my public ca- 
reer, I confess I thought it was my duty to be 
frank ; I would not entail on myself long years 
of mortification by one of those ill-considered en- 
trances into political life which so many public 
men have cause to deplore.” 

“ You go with your family, sir, like a gentle- 
man ; you are not to consider your opinions, like 
a philosopher or a political adventurer.” 

“Yes, sir,” said Coningsby, with animation, 
“but men going with their families like gentle- 
men, and losing sight of every principle on which 
the society of this country ought to be established 
produced the Reform Bill.” 

“ D the Reform Bill ! ” said Lord Mon- 


mouth ; “ if the Duke had not quarrelled with 
Lord Grey on a Coal Committee, we should never 
have had the Reform Bill. And Grey would have 
gone to Ireland.” 

“ You are in as great peril now as you were in 
1830,” said Coningsby. 

“ No, no, no,” said Lord Monmouth ; “ the 
Tory party is organised now ; they will not catch 
us napping again : these Conservative Associa- 
tions have done the business.” 

“ But what are they organised for ? ” said 
Coningsby. “ At the best to turn out the Whigs. 
And when you have turned out the Whigs, what 
then ? You may get your ducal coronet, sir. 
But a duke now is not so great a man as a baron 
w r as but a century back. We cannot struggle 
against the irresistible stream of circumstances. 
Power has left our order ; this is not an age for 
factitious aristocracy. As for my grandmother’s 
barony, I should look upon the termination of its 
abeyance in my favor as the act of my political 
extinction. What we want, sir, is not to fashion 
new dukes and furbish up old baronies, but to 
establish great principles which may maintain the 
realm and secure the happiness of the people. 
Let me see authority once more honored ; a sol- 
emn reverence again the habit of our lives; let 
me see property acknowledging, as in the old days 
of faith, that labor is his twin brother, and that 
the essence of all tenure is the performance of 
duty ; let results such as these be brought about, 
and let me participate, however feebly, in the 
great fulfilment, and public life then indeed be- 
comes a noble career, and a seat in Parliament an 
enviable distinction.” 

“ I tell you what it is, Harry,” said Lord Mon- 
mouth, very drily, “ members of this family may 
think as they like, but they must act as I please. 
You must go down on Friday to Dari ford and de- 
clare yourself a candidate for the town, or I shall 
reconsider our mutual positions. I would say, 
you must go to-morrow ; but it is only courteous 
to Rigby to give him a previous intimation of 
your movement. And that cannot be done to- 
day. I sent for Rigby this morning on other 
business which now occupies me, and find he is 
out of town. He will return to-morrow ; and will 
be here at three o’clock, when you can meet him. 
You will meet him, I doubt not, like a man of 
sense,” added Lord Monmouth, looking at Con- 
ingsby with a glance such as he had never before 
encountered, “ who is not prepared to sacrifice all 
the objects of life for the pursuit of some fantas- 
tical puerilities.” 

His Lordship rang a bell on his table for Ville- 
becque ; and to prevent any further conversation, 
resumed his papers. 


CHAPTER IV. 

It would have been difficult for any person, 
unconscious of crime, to have felt more dejected 
than Coningsby when he rode out of the court- 
yard of Monmouth House. The love of Edith 
would have consoled him for the destruction of 
his prosperity; the proud fulfilment of his ambi- 
tion might in time have proved some compensa- 
tion for his crushed affections ; but his present 


DEPRESSING RUMORS. 


137 


position seemed to offer no single source of solace. 
There came over him that irresistible conviction 
that is at times the dark doom of all of us, that 
the bright period of our life is past ; that a future 
awaits us only of anxiety, failure, mortification, 
despair ; that none of our resplendent visions can 
ever be realised ; and that we add but one more 
victim to the long and dreary catalogue of baffled 
aspirations. 

Nor could he indeed by any combination see 
the means to extricate himself from the perils 
that were encompassing him. There was some- 
thing about his grandfather that defied persua- 
sion. Prone as eloquent youth generally is to 
believe in the resistless power of its appeals, Con- 
ingsby despaired at once of ever moving Lord 
Monmouth. There had been a callous dryness in 
his manner, an unswerving purpose in his spirit, 
that at once baffled all attempts at influence. 
Nor could Coningsby forget the look he received 
when he quitted the room. There was no possi- 
bility of mistaking it; it said at once, without 
periphrasis, “ Cross my purpose, and I will crush 
you ! ” 

This was the moment when the sympathy, if 
not the counsels, of friendship might have been 
grateful. A clever woman might have afforded 
even more than sympathy; some happy device 
that might have even released him from the mesh 
in which he was involved. And once Coningsby 
had turned his horse’s head to Park Lane, to call 
on Lady Everingham. But surely if there were 
a sacred secret in the world, it was the one which 
subsisted between himself and Edith. No, that 
must never be violated. Then there was Lady 
Wallinger ; he could at least speak with freedom 
to her. He resolved to tell her all. He looked in 
for a moment at a club to take up the Court Guide 
and find her direction. A few men were standing 
in a bow window. lie heard Mr. Cassilis say — 

“ So Beau, they say, is booked at last ; the new 
beauty, have you heard ? ” 

“ I saw him very sweet on her last night,” re- 
joined his companion. “ Has she any tin ? ” 

“ Deuced deal, they say,” replied Mr. Cassilis. 
“ The father’s a cotton lord, and they all have 
loads of tin, you know. Nothing like them now.” 

“ He is in Parliament, is not he ? ” 

“ Gad, I believe he is,” said Mr. Cassilis ; “ I 
never know who is in Parliament in these days. 
I remember when there were only ten men in the 
House of Commons who were not either members 
of Brookes’s or this place. Everything is so 
deuced changed.” 

“ I hear ’tis an old affair of Beau,” said an- 
other gentleman. “ It was all done a year ago at 
Rome or Paris.” 

’ “They say she refused him then,” said Mr. 
Cassilis. 

“ Well, that is tolerably cool for a manufactur- 
er’s daughter,” said his friend. “What next? ” 

“ I wonder how the duke likes it ? ” said Mr. 
Cassilis. 

“ Or the duchess ? ” added <me of his friends. 

“ Or the Everinghams ? ” added the other. 

“ The duke will be deuced glad to see Beau 
settled, I take it,” said Mr. Cassilis. 

“ A good deal depends on the tin,” said his 
friend. 

Coningsby threw dotvn “The Court Guide” 


with a sinking heart. In spite of every insuper- 
able difficulty, hitherto the end and object of all 
his aspirations and all his exploits, sometimes 
even almost unconsciously to himself, was Edith. 
It was over. The strange manner of last night 
was fatally explained. The heart that once had 
been his was now another’s. To the man who 
still loves there is in that conviction the most 
profound and desolate sorrow of which our nature 
is capable. All the recollection of the past, all 
the once-cherished prospects of the future, blend 
into one bewildering anguish. Coningsby quitted 
the club, and mounting his horse, rode rapidly 
out of town, almost unconscious of his direction. 
He found himself at length in a green lane near 
Willesden, silent and undisturbed; he pulled up 
his horse, and summoned all his mind to the con- 
templation of his prospects. 

Edith was lost. Now, should he return to 
his grandfather, accept his mission, and go dow n 
to Darlford on Friday? Favor and fortune, 
power, prosperity, rank, distinction, would be 
the consequence of this step ; might not he add 
even vengeance ? Was there to be no term to 
his endurance? Might not he teach this proud, 
prejudiced manufacturer, with all his virulence 
and despotic caprices, a memorable lesson ? And 
his daughter, too, this betrothed, after all, of a 
young noble, with her flush futurity of splendor 
and enjoyment, was she to hear of him only, if 
indeed she heard of him at all, as of one toiling 
or trifling in the humbler positions of existence ; 
and w r onder, with a blush, that he ever could 
have been the hero of her romantic girlhood ? 
What degradation in the idea ! His cheek burnt 
at the possibility of such ignominy ! 

It was a conjuncture in his life that required 
decision. He thought of his companions who 
looked up to him with such ardent anticipations 
of his fame, of delight in his career, and confi- 
dence in his leading ; were all these high and 
fond fancies to be baulked ? On the very thresh- 
old of life was he to blunder ? ’Tis the first 
step that leads to all, and his was to be a wilful 
error. He remembered his first visit to his 
grandfather, and the delight of his friends at 
Eton at his report on his return. After eight 
years of initiation was he to lose that favor then 
so highly prized, when the results which they had 
so long counted on were on the very eve of ac- 
complishment ? Parliament and riches, and rank 
and power — these were facts, realities, substances 
that none could mistake. Was he to sacrifice 
them for speculations, theories, shadows, per- 
haps the vapors of a green and conceited brain ? 
No, by heaven, no ! He was like Cresar by the 
starry river’s side, watching the image of the 
planets on its fatal waters. The die was cast. 

The sun set ; the twilight spell fell upon his 
soul ; the exaltation of his spirit died away. 
Beautiful thoughts, full of sweetness and tran- 
quillity and consolation, came clustering round 
his heart like seraphs. He thought of Edith in 
her hours of fondness ; he thought of the pure 
and solemn moments when to mingle his name 
with the heroes of humanity was his aspiration, 
and to achieve immortal fame the inspiring pur- 
pose of his life. What were the tawdry accidents 
of vulgar ambition to him ? No domestic despot 
could deprive him of his intellect, his knowledge, 


138 


CONINGSBY. 


the sustaining power of an unpolluted conscience. 
If he possessed the intelligence in which he had 
confidence, the world would recognise his voice 
even if not placed upon a pedestal. It the prin- 
ciples of his philosophy were true, the great 
heart of the nation would respond to their ex- 
pression. Coningsby felt at tins moment a pro- 
found conviction which never again deserted him, 
that the conduct which would violate the affec- 
tions of the heart or the dictates of the con- 
science, however it may lead to immediate suc- 
cess, is a fatal error. Conscious that he was 
perhaps verging on some painful vicissitude ot 
his life, he devoted himself to a love that seemed 
hopeless, and to a fame that was perhaps a dream. 

It was under the influence of these solemn 
resolutions that he wrote, on his return home, a 
letter to Lord Monmouth, in which he expressed 
all that affection which he really felt for his 
grandfather, and all the pangs which it cost him 
to adhere to the conclusions he had already an- 
nounced. In terms of tenderness, and even hu- 
mility, he declined to become a candidate for 
Darlford, or even to enter Parliament, except as 
the master of his own conduct. 


CHAPTER Y. 

Lady Monmouth was reclining on a sofa in 
that beautiful boudoir which had been fitted up 
under the superintendence of Mr. Rigby, but as 
he then believed for the Princess Colonna. The 
Avails w r ere hung with amber satin, painted by 
Delaroche with such subjects as might be ex- 
pected from his brilliant and picturesque pencil. 
Fair forms, heroes and heroines in dazzling cos- 
tume, the offspring of chivalry merging into what 
is commonly styled civilisation, moved in grace- 
ful or fantastic groups amid palaces and gardens. 
The ceiling, carved in the deep honeycomb fash- 
ion of the Saracens, was richly gilt and picked 
out in violet. Upon a violet carpet of velvet was 
represented the marriage of Cupid and Psyche. 

It was about two hours after Coningsby had 
quitted Monmouth House, and Flora came in, 
sent for by Lady Monmouth, as was her custom, 
to read to her as she was employed with some 
light work. 

“ ’Tis a new book of Sue,” said Lucretia. 
“ They s.ay it is good.” 

Flora, seated by her side, began to read. 
Reading was an accomplishment which distin- 
guished Flora ; but to-day her voice faltered, her 
expression was uncertain ; she seemed but very 
imperfectly to comprehend her page. More than 
once Lady Monmouth looked round at her with 
an inquisitive glance. Suddenly Flora stopped 
and burst into tears. 

“ 0 ! madam,” she at last exclaimed, “ if you 
would but speak to Mr. Coningsby, all might be 
right ! ” 

“ What is this ? ” said Lady Monmouth, turn- 
ing quickly on the sofa ; then, collecting herself 
in an instant, she continued with less abruptness, 
and more suavity than usual, “Tell me, Flora, 
what is it ; what is the matter ? ” 

“ My Lord,” sobbed Flora, “ has quarrelled 
with Mr. Coningsby.” 


An expression of eager interest came over the 
countenance of Lucretia. 

“ Why have they quarrelled ? ” 

“I do not know they have quarrelled; it is 
not perhaps a right term ; but my Lord is very 
angry with Mr. Coningsby.” 

“Not very angry, I should think, Flora; and 
about what ? ” 

“ Oh ! very angry, madam,” said Flora, shak- 
ing her head mournfully. “ My Lord told M. 
Yillebecque that perhaps Mr. Coningsby would 
never enter the house again.” 

“ Was it to-day ? ” asked Lucretia. 

“ This morning. Mr. Coningsby has only left 
this hour or two. He will not do what my Lord 
wishes — about some seat in the Chamber. I do 
not know exactly what it is ; but my Lord is in 
one of his moods of terror ; my father is fright- 
ened even to go into his room when he is so.” 

“ Has Mr. Rigby been here to-day ? ” asked 
Lucretia. 

“ Mr. Rigby is not in town. My father went 
for Mr. Rigby this morning before Mr. Coningsby 
came, and he found that Mr. Rigby avas not in 
town. That is why I know it.” 

Lady Monmouth rose from her sofa, and 
walked once or twice up and down the room. 
Then turning to Flora, she said, “ Go away now ; 
the book is stupid ; it does not amuse me. Stop : 
find out all you can for me about the quarrel be- 
fore I speak to Mr. Coningsby.” 

Flora quitted the room. Lucretia remained 
for some time in meditation : then she wrote a 
few lines which she despatched at once to Mr. 
Rigby. 


i CHAPTER VI. 

What a great man was the Right Honorable 
Nicholas Rigby ! Here was one of the first peers 
of England, and one of the finest ladies in Lon- 
don, both waiting with equal anxiety his return 
to town ; and unable to transact two affairs of 
vast importance, yet wholly unconnected, without 
his interposition ! What was the secret of the 
influence of this man, confided in by everybody, 
trusted by none ? His counsels were not deep, 
his expedients were not felicitous ; he had no 
feeling, and he could create no sympathy. It is, 
that in most of the transactions of life there is 
some portion which no one cares to accomplish, 
and which everybody wishes to be achieved. This 
Avas always the portion of Mr. Rigby. In the eye 
of the world he had constantly the appearance 
of being mixed up with high dealings, and nego- 
tiations and arrangements of fine management, 
whereas in truth, notwithstanding his splendid 
livery and the airs he gave himself in the 'ser- 
vants’ hall, his real business in life had ever been 
— to do the dirty work. 

Mr. Rigby had been shut up much at his villa 
of late. He was concocting — you could not term 
it composing — an article, a “very slashing ar- 
ticle,” which was to prove that the penny postage 
must be the destruction of the aristocracy. It 
was a grand subject treated in his highest style. 
His parallel portraits of Rowland Hill the con- 
queror of Almarez, aud Rowland Hill the -deviser 
of the cheap postage, was enormously fine. It 


MR. RIGBY’S PLANS. 


139 


was full of passages in italics, little words in great 
capitals, and almost drew tears. The statistical 
details also were highly interesting and novel. 
Several of the old postmen, both twopenny and 
general, who had been in office with himself, and 
who were inspired with an equal zeal against that 
spirit of reform of which they had alike been vic- 
tims, supplied him with information which noth- 
ing but a breach of ministerial duty could have 
furnished. The prophetic peroration as to the ir- 
resistible progress of democracy was almost as 
powerful as one of Rigby’s speeches on Aldbor- 
ougli or Amersham. There never was a fellow for 
giving a good hearty kick to the people like Rig- 
by. Himself sprung from the dregs of the popu- 
lace, this was disinterested. What could be more 
patriotic and magnanimous than his Jeremiads 
over the fall of the Montmorencis and the Cril- 
lons, or the possible catastrophe of the Percys 
and the Manners ! The truth of all this hullabal- 
loo was that Rigby bad a sly pension which, by 
an inevitable association of ideas, he always con- 
nected with the maintenance of an aristocracy. 
All his rigmarole dissertations on the French 
Revolution were impelled by this secret influence ; 
and when he wailed over “ la guerre aux cha- 
teaux,” and moaned like a mandrake over Not- 
tingham Castle in flames, the rogue had an eye 
all the while to quarter-day ! 

Arriving in town the day after Coningsby’s in- 
terview with his grandfather, Mr. Rigby found a 
summons to Monmouth House awaiting him, and 
an urgent note from Lucretia begging that he 
would permit nothing to prevent him seeing her 
for a few' minutes before he called on the Mar- 
quess. 

Lucretia, acting on the unconscious intimation 
of Flora, had in the course of four-and-twenty 
hours obtained pretty ample and accurate details 
of the cause of contention between Coningsby and 
her husband. She could inform Mr. Rigby not 
only that Lord Monmouth was highly incensed 
against his grandson, but that the cause of their 
misunderstanding arose about a seat in the House 
of Commons, and that seat too the one which Mr. 
Rigby had long appropriated to himself, and over 
whose registration he had watched with such af- 
fectionate solicitude. 

Lady Monmouth arranged this information 
like a first-rate artist, and gave it a grouping and 
a color which produced the liveliest effect upon 
her confederate. The countenance of Rigby was 
almost ghastly as he received the intelligence ; a 
grin, half of malice, half of terror, played over his 
features. 

“ I told you to beware of him long ago,” said 
Lady Monmouth. “ He is, he has ever been, in 
the way of both of us.” 

“ He is in my power,” said Rigby. “We can 
crush him ! ” 

“How?” 

“ He is in love with the daughter of Millbank, 
the man who bought Hellingsley.” 

“ Hah ! ” exclaimed Lady Monmouth, in a pro- 
longed tone. 

“ He was at Coningsby all last summer hang- 
ing about her. I found the younger Millbank 
quite domiciliated at the Castle ; a fact which, of 
itself, if known to Lord Monmouth, w r ould ensure 
the lad’s annihilation.” 


“And you kept this fine news for a winter 
campaign, my good Mr. Rigby,” said Lady Mon- 
mouth, with a subtle smile. “ It was a weapon 
of sei’vice. I give you my compliments.” 

“ The time is not always ripe,” said Mr. Rig- 

by. 

“ But it is now most mature ; let us not con- 
ceal it from ourselves that, since his first visit to 
Coningsby, w r e have neither of us really been in 
the same position which we then occupied, or be- 
lieved we should occupy. My Lord, though you 
would scarcely believe it, has a weakness for this 
boy ; and though I by my marriage, and you by 
your zealous ability, have apparently secured a 
permanent hold upon his habits, I have never 
doubted that when the crisis comes we shall find 
that the golden fruit is plucked by one who has 
not watched the garden. You take me? There 
is no reason why we two should clash together : 
we can both of us find what we want, and more 
securely if we work in company.” 

“ I trust my devotion to you has never been 
doubted, dear madam.” 

“Nor to yourself, dear Mr. Rigby. Go now f ; 
the game is before you. Rid me of this Couings- 
by, and I will secure you all that you want. 
Doubt not me. There is no reason. I want a 
firm ally. There must be two.” 

“ It shall be done,” said Rigby ; “ it must be 
done. If once the notion gets wind that one of 
the Castle family may perchance stand for Darl- 
ford, all the present combinations will be dis- 
organised. It must be done at once. I know 
that the Government will dissolve.” 

“ So I hear for certain,” said Lucretia. “Be 
sure there is no time to lose. What does he 
want with you to-day ? ” 

“ I know not ; there are so many things.” 

“ To be sure ; and yet I cannot doubt he will 
speak of this quarrel. Let not the occasion be 
lost. Whatever his mood, the subject may be in- 
troduced. If good, you will guide him more 
easily; if dark, the love for the Hellingsley girl, 
the fact of the brother being in his castle, drink- 
ing his wine, riding his horses, ordering about his 
servants, you will omit no details : a Millbank 
quite at home at Coningsby will lash him to mad- 
ness ! ’Tis quite ripe. Not a word that you 
have seen me. Go, go, or he may hear that you 
have arrived. I shall be at home all the morning. 
It will be but gallant that you should pay me a 
little visit when you have transacted your busi- 
ness. You understand. Au revoir ! ” 

Lady Monmouth took up again her French 
hovel ; but her eye soon glanced over the page, 
unattached by its contents. Her own existence 
was too interesting to find any excitement in fic- 
tion. It was nearly three years since her mar- 
riage ; that great step which she ever had a con- 
viction was to lead to results still greater. Of 
late she had often been filled with a presentiment 
that they were near at hand ; never more so than 
on this day. Irresistible was the current of asso- 
ciations that led her to meditate on freedom, 
wealth, power ; on a career which should at the 
same time dazzle the imagination and gratify her 
heart. Notwithstanding the gossip of Paris, 
founded on no authentic knowledge of her hus- 
band’s character or information, based on the 
haphazard observations of the floating multitude, 


140 


CONINGSBY. 


Lucretia herself had no reason to fear that her in- 
fluence over Lord Monmouth, if exerted, was ma- 
terially diminished. But satisfied that he had 
formed no other tie, with her ever the test of her 
position, she had not thought it expedient, and 
certainly would have found it irksome, to main- 
tain that influence by any ostentatious means. 
She knew that Lord Monmouth was capricious, 
easily wearied, soon palled ; and that on men who 
have no affections, affection has no hold. Their 
passions or their fancies, on the contrary, as it 
seemed to her, are rather stimulated by neglect 
or indifference, provided that they are not system- 
atic ; and the circumstance of a wife being ad- 
mired by one who is not her husband, sometimes 
wonderfully revives the passion or renovates the 
respect of him who should be devoted to her. 

The health of Lord Monmouth was the subject 
which never was long absent from the vigilance 
or meditation of Lucretia. She was well assured 
that his life was no longer secure. She knew that 
after their marriage he had made a will, which se- 
cured to her a very large portion of his great 
wealth, in case of their having no issue, and after 
the accident at Paris all hope in that respect was 
over. Recently the extreme anxiety which Lord 
Monmouth had evinced about terminating the 
abeyance of the barony to which his first wife 
was a co-heiress in favor of his grandson, had 
alarmed Lucretia. To establish in the land 
another branch of the house of Coningsby was 
evidently the last excitement of Lord Monmouth, 
and perhaps a permanent one. If the idea were 
once accepted, notwithstanding the limit to its 
endowment which Lord Monmouth might at the 
first start contemplate, Lucretia had sufficiently 
studied his temperament to be convinced that all 
his energies and all his resources would ultimately 
be devoted to its practical fulfilment. Her origi- 
nal prejudice against Coningsby and jealousy of 
his influence had therefore of late been consider- 
ably aggravated; and the intelligence that for 
the first time there was a misunderstanding be- 
tween Coningsby and her husband filled her with 
excitement and hope. She knew her Lord well 
enough to feel assured that the cause for the dis- 
pleasure in the present instance could not be a 
light one, she resolved instantly to labor that it 
should not be transient ; and it so happened that 
she had applied for aid in this endeavor to the 
very individual in whose power it rested to ac- 
complish all her desire, while in doing so he felt 
at the same time he was defending his own posi- 
tion and advancing his own interests. 

Lady Monmouth was now awaiting with some 
excitement the return of Mr Rigby. His inter- 
view with his patron was of unusual length. An 
hour, and more than an hour, had elapsed. 
Lady Monmouth again threw aside the book 
which more than once she had discarded. She 
paced the room ; restless rather than disquieted. 
She had complete confidence in Rigby’s ability 
for the occasion ; and with her knowledge of 
Lord Monmouth’s character, she could not con- 
template the possibility of failure, if the circum- 
stances were adroitly introduced to his consider- 
ation. Still time stole on ; the harassing and 
exhausting process of suspense was acting on her 
nervous system. She began to think that Rigby 
had not found the occasion favorable for the ca- 


tastrophe; that Lord Monmouth, from apprehen- 
sion of disturbing Rigby and entailing explanations 
on himself, had avoided the necessary communi- 
cation ; that her skilful combination for the mo- 
ment had missed. Two hours had now elapsed, 
and Lucretia, in a state of considerable irritation 
was about to inquire whether Mr. Rigby were 
with his Lordship, when the door of her boudoir 
opened, and that gentleman appeared. 

“ How long you have been,” exclaimed Lady 
Monmouth. “Now sit down and tell me what 
has passed.” 

Lady Monmouth pointed to the seat which 
Flora had occupied. 

“ I thunk your Ladyship,” said Mr. Rigby, 
with a somewhat grave and yet perplexed expres- 
sion of countenance, and seating himself at some 
little distance from his companion, “ but I am 
very w T ell here.” 

There was a pause. Instead of responding to 
the invitation of Lady Monmouth to communicate 
with his usual readiness and volubility, Mr. Rigby 
was silent, and, if it were possible to use such an 
expression with regard to such a gentleman, ap- 
parently embarrassed. 

“Well,” said Lady Monmouth, “does he 
know about the Millbanks ? ” 

“ Everything,” said Mr. Rigby. 

“And what did he say ? ” 

“ His Lordship was greatly shocked,” replied 
Mr. Rigby, with a pious expression of features. 
“ Such monstrous ingratitude ! As his Lordship 
very justly observed, ‘ It is impossible to say 
what is going on under my own roof, or to what I 
can trust.’ ” 

“But he made an exception in your favor, I 
dare say, my dear Mr. Rigby,” said Lady Mon- 
mouth. 

“ Lord Monmouth was pleased to say that I 
possessed his entire confidence,” said Mr. Rigby, 
“ and that he looked to me in his difficulties.” 

“Very sensible of him. And what is to be- 
come of Mr. Coningsby ? ” 

“ The steps which his Lordship is about to 
take with reference to the establishment gener- 
ally,” said Mr. Rigby, “will allow the connection 
that at present subsists between that gentleman 
and his noble relative, now that Lord Monmouth’s 
eyes are open to his real character, to terminate 
naturally without the necessity of any formal ex- 
planation.” 

“ But what do you mean by the steps he is 
going to take in his establishment generally ? ” 

“ Lord Monmouth thinks he requires change 
of scene.” 

“ Oh ! is he going to drag me abroad again ? ” 
exclaimed Lady Monmouth, with great impa- 
tience. 

“ Why, not exactly,” said Mr. Rigby, rather 
demurely. 

“ I hope he is not going again to that dread- 
ful castle in Lancashire.” 

“ Lord Monmouth was thinking that as vou 
were tired of Paris, you might find some of the 
German Baths agreeable.” 

“ Why, there is nothing that Lord Monmouth 
dislikes so much as a German bathing-place ! ” 

“ Exactly,” said Mr. Rigby. 

“ Then how capricious in him wanting to go 
to them ! ” 00 


AN AMICABLE SEPARATION. 


141 


“ lie does not want to go to them ! ” 

“ What do you mean, Mr. Rigby ? ” said Lady 
Monmouth, in a lower voice, and looking him full 
in the face with a glance seldom bestowed. 

There was a churlish and unusual look about 
Rigby. It was as if malignant, and yet at the 
same time a little frightened, lie had screwed 
himself into doggedness. 

“I mean what Lord Monmouth means. He 
suggests that if your Ladyship were to pass the 
summer at Kissengen, for example, and a para- 
graph in the ‘ Morning Post ’ were to announce 
that his Lordship was about to join you there, all 
awkw-ardness would be removed ; and no one 
could for a moment take the liberty of supposing, 
even if his Lordship did not ultimately reach you, 
that anything like a separation had occurred.” 

“ A separation ! ” said Lady Monmouth. 

“ Quite amicable,” said Mr. Rigby. “ I would 
never have consented to interfere in the affair, 
but to secure that most desirable point.” 

“I will see Lord Monmouth at once,” said 
Lucretia, rising, her natural pallor aggravated into 
a ghoul-like tint. 

“ His Lordship has gone out,” said Mr. Rigby, 
rather stubbornly. 

“ Our conversation sir, then, finishes : I wait 
his return.” She bowed haughtily. 

“ His Lordship will never return to Monmouth 
House again.” 

Lucretia sprang from the sofa. 

“ Miserable craven ! ” she exclaimed. “ Has 
the cow r ardly tyrant fled ? .And he really thinks 
that I am to be crushed by such an instrument as 
this ! Pah ! He may leave Monmouth House, 
but I shall not. Begone, sir ! ” 

“ Still. anxious to secure an amicable separa- 
tion,” said Mr. Rigby, “ your Ladyship must al- 
low me to place the circumstances of the case 
fairly before your excellent judgment. Lord Mon- 
mouth has decided upon a course ; you know as 
well as I that he never swerves from his resolu- 
tions. He has left peremptory instructions, and 
he will listen to no appeal. He has empow'ered 
me to represent to your Ladyship that he wishes 
in every way to consider your convenience. He 
suggests that every thing, in short, should be ar- 
ranged as if his Lordship were himself unhappily 
no more; that your Ladyship should at once en- 
ter into your jointure, which shall be made pay- 
able quarterly to your order — provided you can 
find it convenient to live upon the Continent,” 
added Mr. Rigby, with some hesitation. 

“ And suppose I cannot ? ” 

“ Why, then, we will leave your Ladyship to 
the assertion of your rights.” 

“ We ! ” 

“ I beg your Ladyship’s pardon. I speak as 
the friend of the family— the trustee of your mar- 
riage settlement, well knowm also as Lord Mon- 
mouth’s executor,” said Mr. Rigby, his counte- 
nance gradually regaining it’s usual callous confi- 
dence, and some degree of self-complacency, as he 
remembered the good things which he enumer- 
ated. 

“ T have decided,” said Lady Monmouth. “ I 
will assert my rights. Your master has mistaken 
my character and his own position. He shall rue 
the day that he assailed me.” 

“ I should be sorry if there were any violence,” 


said Mr. Rigbv, “especially as every thing is left 
to my management and control. An office, in- 
deed, which I only accepted for your mutual ad- 
vantage. I think, upon reflection, I might put 
before your Ladyship some considerations which 
might induce you, on the whole, to be of opinion 
that it will be better for us to draw together in this 
business, as we have hitherto, indeed, throughout 
an acquaintance now of some years.” Rigby 
was resuming all his usual tone of brazen famii- 
arity. 

“ Your self-confidence exceeds even Lord 
Monmouth’s estimate of it,” said Lucretia. 

“Now, now, you are unkind. Your Lady- 
ship mistakes my position. I am interfering in 
this business for your sake. I might have refused 
the office. It would have fallen to another, who 
would have fulfilled it without any delicacy and 
consideration for your feelings. View my inter- 
position in that light, my dear Lady Monmouth, 
and circumstances will assume altogether a new 
color.” 

“ I beg that you will quit the house, sir.” 

Mr. Rigby shook his head. “ I would with 
pleasure to oblige you, were it in my power; but 
Lord Monmouth has particularly desired that I 
should take up my residence here permanently. 
The servants are now my servants. It is useless 
to ring the bell. For your Ladyship’s sake, I 
wish every thing to be accomplished with tran- 
quillity, and, if possible, friendliness and good- 
feeling. You can have even a week for the prep- 
arations for your departure, if necessary. I will 
take that upon myself. Any carriages, too, that 
you desire ; your jewels — at least all those that 
are not at the banker’s. The arrangement about 
your jointure, your letters of credit, even your 
passport, I will attend to myself ; only too happy 
if, by this painful interference, 1 have in any way 
contributed to soften the annoyance which, at the 
first blush, you may naturally experience, but 
which, like every thing else, take my word, will 
wear off.” 

“ I shall send for Lord Eskdale,” said Lady 
Monmouth. “He is a gentleman.” 

“ I am quite sure,” said Mr. Rigbv, “ that 
Lord Eskdale will give you the same advice as 
myself, if he only reads your Ladyship’s letters,” 
he added slowly, “ to Prince Trautsmandorff.” 

“ My letters ? ” said Lady Monmouth. 

“ Pardon me,” said Rigby, putting his hand in 
his pocket, as if to guard some treasure, “ I have 
no wish to revive painful associations ; but I have 
them, and I must act upon them, if you persist in 
treating me as a foe, who am in reality your best 
friend; which indeed I ought to be, having the 
honor of acting as trustee under your marriage 
settlement, and having known you so many 
years.” 

“ Leave me for the present alone,” said Lady 
Monmouth. “ Send me my servant, if I have one. 
I shall not remain here the w’eek w hich you men- 
tion, but quit at once this house, which I wish I 
had never entered. Adieu ! Mr. Rigby, you are 
now lord of Monmouth House, and yet I cannot 
help feeling you too will be discharged before he 
dies.” 

Mr. Rigbv made Lady Monmouth a bow such 
as became the master of the house, and then 
withdrew. 


142 


CONINGSBY 


CHAPTER VII. 

A paragraph in the “ Morning Post,” a few 
days after his interview with his grandfather, an- 
nouncing that Lord and Lady Monmouth had 
quitted town for the baths of Kissingen, startled 
Coningsby, who called the same day at Monmouth 
House in consequence. There he learnt more 
authentic details of their unexpected movements. 
It appeared that Lady Monmouth had certainly 
departed ; and the porter, with a rather sceptical 
visage, informed Coningsby that Lord Monmouth 
was to follow ; but when, he could not tell. At 
present his Lordship was at Brighton, and in a few 
days was about to take possession of a villa at 
Richmond, which had for some time been fitting 
up for him under the superintendence of Mr. 
Rigby, who, as Coningsby also learnt, now per- 
manently resided at Monmouth House. All this 
intelligence made Coningsby ponder. He was 
sufficiently acquainted with the parties concerned 
to feel assured that he had not learnt the whole 
truth. What had really taken place, and what 
was the real cause of the occurrences, were equal- 
ly mystical to him; all he was convinced of was, 
that some great domestic revolution had been 
suddenly effected. 

Coningsby entertained for his grandfather a 
sincere affection. With the exception of their 
last unfortunate interview, he had experienced 
from Lord Monmouth nothing but kindness both 
in phrase and deed. There was also something 
in Lord Monmouth, when he pleased it, rather 
fascinating to young men; and as Coningsby had 
never occasioned him any feelings but pleasurable 
ones, he was always disposed to make himself de- 
lightful to his grandson. The experience of a 
consummate man of the world advanced in life, 
detailed without rigidity to youth, with frankness 
and facility, is bewitching. Lord Morimouth was 
never garrulous : he was always pithy and could 
be picturesque. He revealed a character in a 
sentence; and detected the ruling passion with 
the hand of a master. Besides, he had seen 
everybody and had done every thing; and though, 
on the whole, too indolent for conversation, and 
loving to be talked to, these were circumstances 
which made his too rare communications the more 
precious. 

With these feelings, Coningsby resolved, the 
moment that he learned that his grandfather was 
established at Richmond, to pay him a visit. He 
was informed that Lord Monmouth was at home, 
and he was shewn into a drawing-room, where he 
found two French ladies in their bonnets, whom 
he soon discovered to be actresses. They also 
had come down to pay a visit to his grandfather, 
and v r ere by no means displeased to pass the in- 
terval that must elapse before they had that 
pleasure in chatting with his grandson. Con- 
ingsby found them extremely amusing; with the 
finest spirits in the world, imperturbable good tem- 
per, and an unconscious practical philosophy, that 
defied the devil Care and all his works. And 
well it was that he found such agreeable com- 
panions, for time flowed on, and no summons ar- 
rived to call him to his grandfather’s presence, 
and no herald to announce his grandfather’s ad- 
vent. The ladies and Coningsby had exhausted 


badinage ; they had examined and criticised all 
the furniture ; had rifled the vases of their pret- 
tiest flowers ; and Clotilde, who had already sung 
several times, v r as proposing a duet to Ermen- 
garde, when a servant entered, and told the ladies 
that a carriage was in attendance to give them an 
airing, and after that Lord Monmouth hoped they 
would return and dine w'ith him ; then turning to 
Coningsby, he informed him, with his Lord’s com- 
pliments, that Lord Monmouth was sorry he was 
too much engaged to see him. 

Nothing was to be done but to put a tolerably 
good face upon it. “ Embrace Lord Monmouth 
for me,” said Coningsby to his fair friends, “ and 
tell him I think it very unkind that he did not ask 
me to dinner with you.” 

Coningsby said this with a gay air, but really 
w’ith a depressed spirit. He felt convinced that 
his grandfather was deeply displeased with him; 
and as he rode away from the villa, he could not 
resist the strong impression that he was destined 
never to re-enter it. Yet it was decreed other- 
wise. It so happened that the idle message which 
Coningsby had left for his grandfather, and which 
he never seriously supposed for a moment that 
his late companions would have given their host, 
operated entirely in his favor. Whatever were 
the feelings with respect to Coningsby at the bot- 
tom of Lord Monmouth’s heart, he w r as actuated 
in his refusal to see him not more from displeas- 
ure than from an anticipatory horror of something 
like a scene. Even a surrender from Coningsby 
without terms, and an offer to declare himself a 
candidate for Darlford, or to do anything else 
that his grandfather wished, would have been dis- 
agreeable to Lord Monmouth in his present mood. 
As in politics a revolution is often followed by a 
season of torpor, so in the case of Lord Monmouth 
the separation from his wife, which had for a long 
period occupied his meditation, was succeeded by 
a vein of mental dissipation. He did not wish to 
be reminded by anything or any person that he 
had still in some degree the misfortune of being a 
responsible member of society. He wuinted to "be 
surrounded by individuals who were above or 
below the conventional interests of what is called 
“ the World.” He wanted to hear nothing of those 
painful and embarrassing influences which from 
our contracted experience and want of enlighten- 
ment we magnify into such undue importance. 
For this purpose he wished to have about him per- 
sons whose knowledge of the cares of life con- 
cerned only the means of existence ; and whose 
sense of its objects referred only to the sources 
of enjoyment ; persons who had not been educated 
in the idolatry of Respectability ; that is to say, of 
realising such an amount of what is termed Char- 
acter by a hypocritical deference to the prejudices 
of the community as may enable them, at suitable 
times, and under convenient circumstances and 
disguises, to plunder the public. This was the 
Monmouth Philosophy. 

With these feelings, Lord Monmouth recoiled 
at this moment from grandsons and relations and 
ties of all kinds. He did not wish to be reminded 
of his identity ; but to swim unmolested and un- 
disturbed in his Epicurean dream. When, there- 
fore, his fair visitors— Clotilde, who opened her 
mouth only to breathe roses and diamonds, and 
Ermengarde, who was so good-natured that she 


RECONCILIATION 


143 


sacrificed even her lovers to her friends — saw 
him merely to exclaim at the same moment, and 
with the same voices of thrilling joyousness — 

“ Why did not you ask him to dinner ? ” 

— And then, without waiting for his reply, en- 
tered with that rapidity of elocution which French- 
women can alone command into the catalogue of 
his charms and accomplishments, Lord Monmouth 
began to regret that he really had not seen Conings- 
by, who it appeared might have greatly contributed 
to the pleasure of the day. The message, which 
was duly given, however, settled the business. 
Lord Monmouth felt that any chance of explana- 
tions, or even allusions to the past, was out of 
the question ; and to defend himself from the 
accusations of his animated guests, he said — 

“ Well, he shall come to dine with you next 
time.” 

There is no end to the influence of women on 
our life. It is at the bottom of everything that 
happens to us. And so it was, that in spite of 
all the combinations of Lucretia and Mr. Rigby, 
and the mortification and resentment of Lord 
Monmouth, the favorable impression he casually 
made on a couple of French actresses occasioned 
Coningsby, before a month had elapsed since his 
memorable interview at Monmouth House, to re- 
ceive an invitation again to dine with his grand- 
father. 

The party was agreeable. Clotilde and Ermen- 
garde had wits as sparkling as their eyes. There 
was the manager of the Opera, a great friend of 
Yillebecque, and his wife, a splendid lady, who 
had been a prima donna of celebrity, and still 
had a commanding voice for a chamber ; a Carlist 
nobleman, who lived upon his traditions, and Avho, 
though without a sou, could tell of a festival given 
by his family, before the revolution, which had 
cost a million of francs ; and a Neapolitan physi- 
cian, in whom Lord Monmouth had great confi- 
dence, and who himself believed in the elixir 
vitas, made up the party, with Lucian Gay, Con- 
ingsby, and Mr. Rigby. Our hero remarked that 
Yillebecque on this occasion sat at the bottom 
of the table, but Flora did not appear. 

In the meantime, the month which brought 
about this satisfactory and at onetime unexpected 
result, was fruitful also in other circumstances still 
more interesting. Coningsby and Edith met fre- 
quently, if to breathe the same atmosphere in the 
same crowded saloons can be described as meet- 
ing ; ever watching each other’s movements, and 
yet studious never to encounter each other’s 
glance. The charms of Miss Millbank had be- . 
come an universal topic — they were celebrated 
iu ball-rooms, they were discussed at clubs ; Edith 
was the beauty of the season. All admii’ed her, 
many sighed even to express their admiration; 
but the devotion of Lord Beaumanoir, who always 
hovered about her, deterred them from a rivalry 
which might have made the boldest despair. As 
for Coningsby, he passed his life principally with 
the various members of the Sydney family ; and 
was almost daily riding with Lady Everingbam 
and her sister, generally accompanied by Lord 
Henry and his friend Eustace Lyle, between 
whom, indeed, and Coningsby there were relay 
tions of intimacy scarcely less inseparable. Con- 
ingsby had spoken to Lady Everingbam of the 
rumored marriage of her elder brother, and found, 


although the family had not yet been formally 
apprised of it, she entertained little doubt of its 
ultimate occurrence. She admired Miss Millbank, 
with whom her acquaintance continued slight ; 
and she wished, of course, that her brother should 
marry and be happy. “ But Percy is often in 
love,” she would add, “ and never likes us to be 
very intimate with his inamoratas. He thinks 
it destroys the romance ; and that domestic 
familiarity may compromise his heroic charac- 
ter. HoAvever,” she added, “ I really believe that 
will be a match.” 

On the Avhole, though he bore a serene aspect 
to the world, Coningsby passed this month in a 
state of restless misery. His soul was brooding 
on one subject, and he had no confidant; he 
could not resist the spell that impelled him to 
the society where Edith might at least be seen, 
and the circle in which he lived was one in which 
her name was frequently mentioned. Alone, in 
his solitary rooms in the Albany, he felt all his 
desolation; and often a few minutes before he 
figured in the world, apparently followed and 
courted by all, he had been plunged in the dark- 
est fits of irremediable wretchedness. 

He bad, of course, frequently met Lady Wall- 
inger, but their salutations, though never omitted, 
and on each side cordial, were brief. There seemed 
to be tacit understanding between them not to 
refer to a subject fruitful in painful reminis- 
cences. 

The season waned. In the fulfilment of a 
project originally formed in the playing-fields of 
Eton, often recurred to at Cambridge, and cher- 
ished with the fondness with which men cling to 
a scheme of early youth, Coningsby, Henry Syd- 
ney, Yere, and Buckhurst, had engaged some 
moors together this year ; and in a few days they 
were about to quit town for Scotland. They 
had pressed Eustace Lyle to accompany them, 
but he who in general seemed to have no pleas- 
ure greater that their society, had surprised them 
by declining their invitation, with some vague 
mention that he rather thought he should go 
abroad. 

It was the last day of July, and all the 
world -were at a breakfast given, at a fanciful cot- 
tage, situate in beautiful gardens on the banks 
of the Thames, by Lady Everingbam. The weather 
was as bright as the romances of Boccaccio ; 
there were pyramids of strawberries in bowls 
colossal enough to hold orange-ti'ees ; and the 
choicest band filled the air with enchanting strains, 
while a brilliant multitude sauntered on turf-like 
velvet, or roamed in desultory existence amid the 
quivering shades of winding walks. 

“ My fete was prophetic,” said Lady Evering- 
ham, when she saw Coningsby. “I am glad it 
is connected with an incident. It gives it a 
point.” 

“ You are mystical as well as prophetic. Tell 
me what we are to celebrate.” 

“ Theresa is going to be married.” 

“ Then I, too, will prophesy and name the 
hero of the romance — Eustace Lyle.” 

“ You have been more prescient than I,” said 
Lady Everingbam, “ perhaps because I was think- 
ing too much of somjs one else.” 

“ It seems to me an union which all must 
acknowledge perfect. I hardly knoAv which I love 


144 


CONINGSBY. 


best. I have had my suspicions a long time, 
and when Eustace refused to go to the moors with 
us, though I saitl nothing, I was convinced.” 

“ At any rate,” said Lady Everingham, sigh- 
ing, with a rather smiling face, “ we are kinsfolk, 
Mr. Coningsby ; though I would gladly have 
wished to have been more.” 

“ Were those your thoughts, dear Lady ? 
Ever kind to me ! Happiness,” he added, in a 
mournful tone, “I fear can never be mine.” 

“ And why ? ” 

“ Ah ! ’tis a tale too strange and sorrowful 
for a day when, like Seged, we must all determine 
to be happy.” 

“You have already made me miserable.” 

“ Here comes a group that will make you 
gay,” said Coningsby as he moved on. Edith 
and the Wallingers, accompanied by Lord Beau- 
manoir, Mr. Melton, and Sir Charles Buckhurst, 
formed the party. They seemed profuse in 
their congratulations to Lady Everingham, hav- 
ing already learned the intelligence from her 
bi’other. 

Coningsby stopped to speak to Lady St. Juli- 
ans, who had still a daughter to marry. Both 
Augustina, who was at Coningsby Castle, and 
Clara Isabella, who ought to have been there, had 
each secured the right man. But Adelaide Vic- 
toria had now appeared, and Lady St. Julians had 
a great regard for the favorite grandson of 
Lord Monmouth, and also for the influential 
friend of Lord Vere and Sir Charles Buckhurst. 
In case Coningsby did not determine to become 
her son in-law himself, he might counsel either of 
his friends to a judicious decision on an inevita- 
ble act. 

“ Strawberries and cream?” said Lord Esk- 
dale to Mr. Ormsby, who seemed occupied with 
some delicacies. 

“ Egad ! no no, no ; those days are past. I 
think there is a little easterly wind with all this 
fine appearance.” 

“ I am for in-door nature myself,” said Lord 
Eskdale. “ Bo you know I don’t half like the 
way Monmouth is going on. He never gets out 
of that villa of his. He should change his air 
more. Tell him.” 

“ It’s no use telling him anything. Have you 
heard anything of Miladi ? ” 

“ I had a letter from her to-day ; she writes 
in very good spirits. I am sorry it broke up, and 
yet I never thought it would last so long.” 

“ I gave them two years,” said Mr. Ormsby. 
“Lord Monmouth lived with his first wife two 
years. And afterwards with the Mirandola at 
Milan, at least nearly two years ; it was a year 
and ten months. I must know, for he called me 
in to settle affairs. I took the Lady to the Baths at 
Lucca on the pretence that Monmouth would meet 
us there. He went to Paris. All his great affairs 
have been two years. I remember I wanted to 
bet Cassilis at White’s on it when he married ; 
but I thought, being his intimate friend — the 
oldest friend he has, indeed, and one of his trus- 
tees — it was perhaps as well not to do it.” 

“You should have made the bet with him- 
self,” said Lord Eskdale, “ and then there never 
would have been a separation.” 

“ Hali, hah, hah ! Do vou know I feel the 
wiud ? ” 


About an hour after this, Coningsby, who had 
just quitted the Duchess, met, on a terrace by 
the river, Lady Wallinger, walking with Mrs. 
Guy Flouncey and a Russian Prince, whom that 
lady was enchanting. Coningsby was about to 
pass with some slight courtesy, but Lady Wallin- 
ger stopped and would speak to him, on very 
slight subjects — the weather and the fete, but 
yet adroitly enough managed to make him turn 
and join her. Mrs. Guy Flouncey walked on a 
little before with her Russian admirer. Lady 
Wallinger followed with Coningsby. 

“ The match that has been proclaimed to-day 
has greatly surprised me,” said Lady Wallinger. 

“ Indeed ! ” said Coningsby ; “ I confess I was 
long prepared for it. And it seems to me the 
most natural alliance conceivable, and one that 
every one must approve.” 

“ Lady Everingham seems very much sur- 
prised at it.” 

“ Ah ! Lady Everingham is a very brilliant 
personage, and cannot deign to observe obvious 
circumstances.” 

“ Do you know, Mr. Coningsby, that I always 
thought you were engaged to Lady Theresa ? ” 

“I ! » 

“ Indeed, we were informed more than a 
month ago that you were positively going to be 
married to her.” 

“ I am not one of those who can shift their 
affections with such rapidity, Lady Wallinger.” 

Lady Wallinger looked distressed. “You re- 
member our meeting you on the stairs at 

House, Mr. Coningsby ? ” 

“ Painfully. It is deeply graven on my brain.” 

“ Edith had just been informed that you were 
going to be married to Lady Theresa.” 

“Not surely by him to whom she is herself 
going to be married ? ” said Coningsby, redden- 
ing. 

“ I am not aware that she is going to be mar- 
ried to any one. Lord Beaumanoir admires her — 
has always admired her. But Edith has given 
him no encouragement, at least gave him no en- 
couragement as long as she believed — but why 
dwell on such an unhappy subject, Mr. Conings- 
by ? I am to blame — I have been to blame per- 
haps before, but indeed I think it cruel, very 
cruel, that Edith and you are kept asunder.” 

“ You have always been my best, my dearest 
friend, and are the most amiable and admirable 
of women. But tell me, is it indeed true that 
Edith is not going to be married ? ” 

At this moment Mrs. Guy Flouncey turned 
round, and assuring Lady Wallinger that the 
Prince and herself had agreed to refer some point 
to her about the most transcendental ethics of 
flirtation, this deeply interesting conversation was 
arrested, and Lady Wallinger, with becoming 
suavity, was obliged to listen to the lady’s lively 
appeal of exaggerated nonsense and the Prince’s 
affected protests, while Coningsby walked by her 
side, pale and agitated, and then offered his arm 
to Lady Wallinger, which she accepted with an 
affectionate pressure. At the end of the terrace 
they met some other guests, and soon were im- 
mersed in the multitude that thronged the lawn. 

“ There is Sir Joseph,” said Lady Wallinger, 
and Coningsby looked up and saw Edith on his 
arm. They were unconsciously approaching them. 


CHRISTMAS AT ST. GENEVIEVE. 


145 


Lord Beaumanoir was there, but he seemed to 
shrink into nothing to-day before Buckhurst, 
who was captivated for the moment by Edith, and 
hearing that no knight was resolute enough to 
try a fall with the Marquess, was impelled by his 
talent for action to enter the lists. He had talked 
down everybody, unhorsed every cavalier. No- 
body had a chance against him ; he answered all 
your questions before you asked them ; contra- 
dicted everybody with the intrepidity of a Rigby ; 
annihilated your anecdotes by historiettes infi- 
nitely more piquant ; and if anybody chanced to 
make a joke which he could not excel, declared 
immediately that it was a Joe Miller. He was 
absurd, extravagant, grotesque, noisy ; but he was 
young, rattling, and interesting, from his health 
and spirits. Edith was extremely amused by 
him ; and was encoui’aging by her smile his 
spiritual excesses, when they all suddenly met 
Lady Wallinger and Coningsby. 

. The eyes of Edith and Coningsby met for the 
first time since they so cruelly encountered on 

the staircase of House. A deep, quick 

blush suffused her face, her eyes gleamed with a 
sudden coruscation ; suddenly and quickly she 
put forth her hand. 

Yes ! He presses once more that hand which 
permanently to retain is the passion of his life, 
yet which may never be his ! It seemed that for 
the ravishing delight of that moment, he could 
have borne with cheerfulness all the dark and 
harrowing misery of the year that had passed 
away since he embraced her in the woods of Hel- 
lingsley, and pledged his faith by the waters of 
the rushing Dari. 

He seized the occasion which offered itself, a 
moment to walk by her side, and to snatch some 
brief instants of unreserved communion. 

“ Forgive me ! ” she said. 

“ Ah ! how could you ever doubt me ? ” said 
Coningsby. 

“ I was unhappy.” 

“ And now we are to each other as before.” 

“ And will be ; come what come may.” 


B 0 OK IX. 

CHAPTER I. 

It was merry Christmas at St. Genevieve. 
There was a yule log blazing on every hearth in 
that wide domain, from the hall of the squire to 
the peasant’s roof. The Buttery Hatch was open 
for the whole week from noon to sunset; all 
comers might take their fill, and each carry away 
as much bold beef, white bread, and jolly ale, as 
a strong man could bear in a basket with one 
hand. For every woman a red cloak, and a coat 
of broad cloth for every man. All day long, 
carts laden with fuel and warm raiment were trav- 
ersing the various districts, distributing comfort 
and dispensing cheer. For a Christian gentleman 
of high degree was Eustace Lyle. 

Within his hall, too, he holds his revel, and 
his beauteous bride welcomes their guests, from 
her noble parents to the faithful tenants of the 
house. All classes are mingled in the joyous 
10 


equality that becomes the season, at once sacred 
and merry. There are carols for the eventful 
eve, and mummers for the festive day. 

The Duke and Duchess, and every member of 
the family, had consented this year to keep their 
Christmas with the newly-married couple. Con- 
ingsby, too, was there, and all his friends. The 
party was numerous, gay, hearty, and happy ; for 
they were all united by sympathy. 

They were planning that Henry Sydney should 
be appointed Lord of Misrule, or ordained Abbot 
of Unreason at the least, so successful had been 
his revival of the Mummers, the Hobby-horse not 
forgotten. Their host had entrusted to Lord Henry 
the restoration of many old observances ; and 
the joyous feeling which this celebration of Christ- 
mas had diffused throughout a very extensive dis- 
trict, was a fresh argument in favor of Lord 
Henry’s principle, that a mere mechanical miti- 
gation of the material necessities of the humbler 
classes — a mitigation which must inevitably be 
very limited, can never alone avail sufficiently to 
ameliorate their condition ; that their condition is 
not merely “ a knife-and-fork question,” — to use 
the coarse and shallow phrase of the Utilitarian 
school ; that a simple satisfaction of the grosser 
necessities of our nature will not make a happy 
people ; that you must cultivate the heart as well 
as seek to content the belly ; and that the surest 
means to elevate the character of the people is to 
appeal to their affections. 

There is nothing more interesting than to 
trace predisposition. An indefinite, yet strong 
sympathy, with the peasantry of the realm had 
been one of the characteristic sensibilities of Lord 
Henry at Eton. Yet a schoolboy, he had busied 
himself with their pastimes and the details of 
their cottage economy. As he advanced in life, 
the horizon of his views expanded with his in- 
telligence and his experience ; and the son of one 
of the noblest of our houses, to whom the delights 
of life are offered with fatal facility, on the very 
threshold of his career, he devoted his time and 
thought, labor and life, to one vast and noble pur- 
pose, the elevation of the condition of the great 
body of the people. 

“ I vote for Buckhurst being Lord of Mis- 
rule,” said Lord Henry ; “ I will be content with 
being his Gentleman Usher.” 

“ It shall be put to the vote,” said Lord Yere. 

“No one has a chance against Buckhurst,” 
said Coningsby. 

“Now, Sir Charles,” said Lady Everingham, 
“ your absolute sway is about to commence. 
And what is your will ? ” 

“ The first thing must be my formal installa- 
tion,” said Buckhurst. “ I vote the Boar’s head 
be carried in procession thrice round the hall, 
and Beau shall be the champion to challenge all 
who question my right. Duke, you shall be my 
chief butler ; the Duchess my herbwoman. She 
is to walk before me, and scatter rosemary. Con- 
ingsby shall carry the Boar’s head ; Lady Theresa 
and Lady Everingham shall sing the canticle ; 
Lord Everingham shall be marshal of the lists, 
and put all in the stocks who are found sober 
and decorous ; Lyle shall be the palmer from the 
Holy Land, and Yere shall ride the Hobby-horse. 
Some must carry cups of Hippocrass ; some 
lighted tapers ; all must join in chorus.” 


146 


CONINGSBY. 


He ceased his instructions, and all hurried 
away to carry them into effect. Some hastily 
arrayed themselves in fanciful dresses, the ladies 
in robes of white, with garlands of flowers ; some 
drew pieces of armor from the wall, and decked 
themselves with helm and hauberk ; others waved 
ancient banners. They brought in the Boar’s 
head on a large silver dish, and Coningsby raised 
it aloft. They formed into procession, the Duch- 
ess distributing I’osemary ; Buckhurst swagger- 
ing with all the majesty of Tamerlane, his mock 
court irresistibly humorous with their servility ; 
and the sweet voice of Lady Everingham chant- 
ing the first verse of the Canticle, followed, in 
tbe second, by the rich tones of Lady Theresa : — 

I. 

Caput Stpvi ticfcro 

laubes Domino. 

Cftc boat’s ijcabc in Ijantic Imna £, 

II2Fitl) Qarlanhcs flan anh rosemarn, 

X pran pou all sing mcraln, 

~<Duu estts in conbibio. 

ii. 

Caput &pri befcro 
IXebbens laubcs Domino. 

Cfle boar’s tjealic K untrcvstanbc 
£ s tpc clficf sctbpcc in tips lanbc, 

3Loke bfljcrecbcu it be fantrr, 

Sorbite cum canttco. 

The procession thriee paraded the hall. Then 
they stopped ; and the Lord of Misrule ascended 
his throne, and his courtiers formed round him 
in circle. Behind him they held the ancient ban- 
ners and waved their glittering arms ; and placed 
on a lofty and illuminated pedestal the Boar’s 
head covered with garlands. It was a good pic- 
ture, and the Lord of Misrule sustained his part 
with untiring energy. He was addressing his 
court in a pompous rhapsody of merry nonsense, 
when a servant approached Coningsby, and told 
him that he was wanted without. 

Our hero retired unperceived. A despatch 
had arrived for him from London. Without any 
prescience of its purpose, he nevertheless broke 
the seal with a trembling hand. His presence 
was immediately desired in town — Lord Mon- 
mouth was dead. 


CHAPTER II. 

This was a crisis in the life of Coningsby ; 
yet, like many critical epochs, the person most 
interested in it was not sufficiently aware of its 
• character. The first feeling which he experienced 
at the intelligence was sincere affliction. He was 
fond of his grandfather ; had received great kind- 
ness from him, and at a period of life when it 
was most welcome. The neglect and hardships of 
his early years, instead of leaving a prejudice 
against one who, by some, might be esteemed 
their author, had by their contrast only rendered 
Coningsby more keenly sensible of the solicitude 
and enjoyment which had been lavished on his 
happy youth. 

The next impression on his mind was un- 
doubtedly a natural and reasonable speculation 


on the effect of this bereavement on his fortunes. 
Lord Monmouth had more than once assured 
Coningsby that he had provided for him as be- 
came a near relative to whom he was attached, 
and in a manner which ought to satisfy the wants 
and wishes of an English gentleman. The allow- 
ance which Lord Monmouth had made him, as con- 
siderable as usually accorded to the eldest sons 
of wealthy peers, might justify him in estimating 
his future patrimony as extremely ample. He 
was aware, indeed, that at a subsequent period 
his grandfather had projected for him fortunes 
of a still more elevated character. He looked to 
Coningsby as the future representative of an 
ancient barony, and had been purchasing terri- 
tory with the view of supporting the title. But 
Coningsby did not by any means firmly reckon 
on these views being realised. He had a sus- 
picion that in thwarting the wishes of his grand- 
father in not becoming a candidate for Darlford, 
he had at the moment arrested arrangements 
which, from the tone of Lord Monmouth’s com- 
munication, he believed were then in progress 
for that purpose ; and he thought it improbable, 
with his knowledge of his grandfather’s habits, 
that Lord Monmouth had found either time or 
inclination to resume before his decease the com- 
pletion of these plans. Indeed there was a 
period when, in adopting the course which he 
pursued with respect to Darlford, Coningsby was 
well aware that he perilled more than the large 
fortune which was to accompany the barony. 
Had not a separation between Lord Monmouth 
and his wife taken place simultaneously with 
Coningsby’s difference with his grandfather, he 
was conscious that the consequences might have 
been even altogether fatal to his prospects ; but 
the absence of her evil influence at such a con- 
juncture, its permanent removal, indeed, from 
the scene, coupled with his fortunate though not 
formal reconciliation with Lord Monmouth, had 
long ago banished from his memory all those ap- 
prehensions to which he had felt it impossible at 
the time to shut his eyes. Before he left town 
for Scotland he had made a farewell visit to his 
grandfather, who, though not as cordial as in old 
days, had been gracious ; and Coningsby, during 
his excursion to the moors, and his various visits 
to the country, had continued at intervals to 
write to his grandfather, as had been for some 
years his custom. On the whole, with an in- 
definite feeling which, in spite of many a rational 
effort, did nevertheless haunt his mind, that this 
great and sudden event might exercise a vast and 
beneficial influence on his worldly position, Con- 
ingsby could not but feel some consolation in the 
affliction which he sincerely experienced, in the 
hope that he might at all events now offer to 
Edith a home worthy of her charms, her virtues, 
and her love. 

Although he had not seen her since their 
hurried yet sweet reconciliation in the gardens 
of Lady Everingham, Coningsby was never long 
without indirect intelligence of the incidents of 
her life; and the correspondence between Lady 
Everingham and Henry Sydney, while they were 
at the moors, had apprised him that Lord Beau- 
manoir’s suit had terminated unsuccessfully al- 
most immediately after his brother had quitted 
London. 


LORD MONMOUTH’S WILL. 


147 


It was late in the evening when Coningsby 
arrived in town ; he called at once on Lord Esk- 
dale, who was one of Lord Monmouth’s execu- 
tors ; and he persuaded Coningsby, whom he saw 
depressed, to dine with him alone. 

“ You should not be seen at a club,” said the 
good-natured peer ; “ and I remember myself in 
old days what was the wealth of an Albanian lar- 
der.” 

Lord Eskdale at dinner talked very frankly of 
the disposition of Lord Monmouth’s property. 
He spoke as a matter of course that Coningsby 
was his grandfather’s principal heir. 

“ I don’t know whether you will be happier 
with a large fortune ? ” said Lord Eskdale. “ It’s 
a troublesome thing ; nobody is satisfied with 
what you do with it ; very often not yourself. To 
maintain an equable expenditure; not to spend 
too much on one thing, too little on another ; is 
an art. There must be a harmony, a keeping in 
disbursement, which very few men have. Great 
wealth wearies. The thing to have is about ten 
thousand a year, and the world to think you have 
only five. There’s some enjoyment then ; one is 
let alone. But the instant you have a large for- 
tune, duties commence. And then impudent fel- 
lows borrow your money, and if you ask them for 
it again, they go about town saying you are a 
screw.” 

Lord Monmouth had died suddenly at his 
Richmond villa, which latterly he never quitted, 
at a little supper ; with no persons near him but 
those who were very amusing. He suddenly 
found he could not lift his glass to his lips, and 
being extremely polite, waited a few minutes be- 
fore he asked Clotilde, who was singing a spark- 
ling drinking song, to do him that service. When 
in accordance with his request she reached him, 
it was too late. The ladies shrieked, being fright- 
ened : at first they were in despair, but, after re- 
flection, they evinced some intention of plunder- 
ing the house. Villebecque, who was absent at 
the moment, arrived in time ; and everybody be- 
came orderly and broken-hearted. 

The body had been removed to Monmouth 
House, where it had been embalmed and laid in 
state. The funeral was not numerously attended. 
There was nobody in town ; some distinguished 
connections, however, came up from the country, 
though it was a period inconvenient for such 
movements. After the funeral, the will was to be 
read in the principal saloon of Monmouth House, 
one of those gorgeous apartments that had excited 
the boyish wonder of Coningsby on his first visit 
to that paternal roof, and now hung in black, 
adorned with the escutcheon of the deceased peer. 

The testamentary dispositions of the late Lord 
were still unknown, though the names of his exec- 
utors had been announced by his family solicitor, 
in whose custody the will and codicils had always 
remained. The executors under the will were 
Lord Eskdale, Mr. Ormsby, and Mr. Rigby. By 
a subsequent appointment Sidonia had been added. 
All these individuals were now present. Conings- 
by, who had been chief mourner, stood on the 
right hand of the solicitor, who sat at the end of 
a long table, round which in groups were ranged 
all who had attended the funeral, including sev- 
eral of the superior members of the household ; 
among them M. Villebecque. 


The solicitor rose and explained that though 
Lord Monmouth had been in the habit of very 
frequently adding codicils to his will, the original 
will, however changed or modified, had never been 
revoked ; it was therefore necessary to commence 
by reading that instrument. So saying, he sat 
down, and breaking the seals of a large packet, 
he produced the will of Philip Augustus, Mar- 
quess of Monmouth, which had been retained in his 
custody since its execution. 

By this will, of the date of 1829, the sum of 
ten thousand pounds was left to Coningsby, then 
unknown to his grandfather ; the same sum to 
Mr. Rigby. There w T as a great number of lega- 
cies, none of superior amount, most of them of 
less ; these were chiefly left to old male compan- 
ions, and women in various countries. There 
was an almost inconceivable number of small an- 
nuities to faithful servants, decayed actors, and 
obscure foreigners. The residue of his personal 
estate was left to four gentlemen, three of whom 
had quitted this world before the legator; the 
bequests, therefore, had lapsed. The fourth re- 
siduary legatee, in whom, according to the terms 
of the will, all would have consequently centred, 
was Mr. Rigby. 

There followed several codicils which did not 
materially affect the previous disposition ; one of 
them leaving a legacy of £20,000 to the Princess 
Colonna ; until they arrived at the latter part 
of the year 1832, when a codicil increased the 
£10,000 left under the will to Coningsby to 
£50,000. 

After Coningsby’s visit to the Castle in 1836 
a very important change occurred in the dis- 
position of Lord Monmouth’s estate. The leg- 
acy of £50,000 in his favor was revoked, and 
the same sum left to the Princess Lucretia. 
A similar amount was bequeathed to Mr. 
Rigby ; and Coningsby was left sole residuary 
legatee. 

The marriage led to a considerable modifica- 
tion. An estate of about nine thousand a year 
which Lord Monmouth had himself purchased, 
and was therefore in his own disposition, was left 
to Coningsby. The legacy to Mr. Rigby was re- 
duced to £20,000, and the whole of his residue 
left to his issue by Lady Monmouth. In case he 
died without issue, the estate bequeathed to Con- 
ingsby to be taken into account, and the residue 
then to be divided equally between Lady Mon- 
mouth and his grandson. It was under this in- 
strument that Sidonia had been appointed an exec- 
utor, and to whom Lord Monmouth left, among 
others, his celebrated picture of the Holy Family 
by Murillo, as his friend had often admii’ed it. 
To Lord Eskdale he left all his female miniatures, 
and to Mr. Ormsby his rare and splendid collec- 
tion of French novels, and all his wines, except 
his Tokay, which he left, with his library, to Sir 
Robert Peel ; though this legacy was afterwards 
revoked, in consequence of Sir Robert’s conduct 
about the Irish corporations. 

The solicitor paused and begged permission 
to send for a glass of water. While this was ar- 
ranging there was a murmur at the lower part of 
the room, but little disposition to conversation 
among those in the vicinity of the lawyer. Con- 
ingsby was silent, his brow a little knit; Mr. Rig- 
by was extremely pale and restless, but said noth- 


148 


CONINGSBY. 


ing. Mr. Ormsby took a pinch of snuff, and of- 
fered his box to Lord Eskdale, who was next to 
him. They exchanged glances, and made some 
observation about the weather. Sidonia stood 
apart with his arms folded. He had not, of course, 
attended the funeral, nor had he as yet exchanged 
any recognition with Coningsbv. 

" “ Now, gentlemen,” said the solicitor, “ if you 
please, I will proceed.” 

They came to the year 1839, the year Con- 
ingsby was .at Hellingsley. This appeared to be 
a very critical period in the fortunes of Lady 
Monmouth ; while Coningsby’s reached to the 
culminating point. Mr. Rigby was reduced to 
his original legacy under the will of £10,000 ; a 
sum of equal amount was bequeathed to Armand^ 
Villebecque in acknowledgment of faithful ser-‘ 
vices ; all the dispositions in favor of Lady Mon- 
mouth were revoked, and she was limited to her 
moderate jointure of £3,000 per annum, under the 
marriage settlement; while everything without 
reserve was left absolutely to Coningsby. 

A subsequent codicil determined that the 
£10,000 left to Mr. lligby should be equally divid- 
ed between him and Lucian Gay ; but as some 
compensation, Lord Monmouth left to the right 
Honorable Nicholas Rigby the bust of that gentle- 
man, which he had himself presented to his Lord- 
ship, and which, at his desire, had been placed in 
the vestibule at Coningsby Castle, from the amiable 
motive that after Lord Monmouth’s decease Mr. 
Rigby might wish perhaps to present it to some 
other friend. 

Lord Eskdale and Mr. Ormsby took care uot 
to catch the eye of Mr. Rigby. As for Conings- 
by, he saw nobody. He maintained, during the 
extraordinary situation in which he was placed, a 
firm demeanor ; but serene and regulated as he 
appeared to the spectators, his nerves were really 
strung to a high pitch. 

There was yet another codicil. It bore the 
date June, 1840, and was made at Brighton, im- 
mediately after the separation with Lady Mon- 
mouth. It was the sight of this instrument that 
sustained Rigby at this great emergency. He 
had a wild conviction that, after all, it must set 
all right. He felt assured that as Lady Mon- 
mouth had already been disposed of, it must 
principally refer to the disinheritance of Conings- 
by — secured by Rigby’s well-timed and malignant 
misrepresentations of what had occurred in Lan- 
cashire during the preceding summer. And then 
to whom could Lord Monmouth leave his money ? 
However he might cut and carve up his fortunes, 
Rigby, and especially at a moment when he had 
so served him, must come in for a considerable 
slice. 

His prescient mind was right. All the dispo- 
sitions in favor of “ my grandson Harry Conings- 
by ” were revoked ; and he inherited from his 
grandfather only the interest of the sum of £10,- 
000 which had been originally bequeathed to him 
in his orphan boyhood. The executors had the 
power of investing the principal in any way they 
thought proper for his advancement in life, pro- 
vided always it was not placed in “ the capital 
stock of any manufactory.” 

Coningsby turned pale; he lost his abstracted 
look, he caught the eye of Rigby, he read the 
latent malice of that nevertheless anxious counte- 


nance. What passed through the mind and being 
of Coningsby was thought and sensation enough 
for a year ; but it was as the flash that reveals a 
whole country, yet ceases to be ere one can say it 
lightens. There was a revelation to him of an 
inward power that should baffle these convention- 
al calamities — a natural and sacred confidence in 
his youth and health, and- knowledge and convic- 
tions. Even the recollection of Edith was not 
unaccompanied with some sustaining associations. 
At least the mightiest foe to their union was de- 
parted. 

All this was the impression of an instant, sim- 
ultaneous with the reading of the words of form 
with which the last testamentary disposition of 
the Marquess of Monmouth left the sum ot 
£30,000 to Armand Villebecque ; and all the rest, 
residue, and remainder of his unentailed proper- 
ty, wheresoever, and whatsoever it might be, 
amounting in value to nearly a million sterling, 
was given, devised, and bequeathed to Flora, 
commonly called Flora Villebecque, the step-child 
of the said Armand Villebecque, “ but who is my 
natural daughter by Marie Estelle Matteau, an 
actress at the Theatre Franijais in the years 1811- 
15, by the name of Stella.” 


CHAPTER III. 

“ This is a crash ! ” said Coningsby, with a 
grave rather than agitated countenance, to Sido- 
nia, as his friend came up to greet him, without, 
however, any expression of condolence. 

“ This time next year you will not think so,” 
said Sidonia. 

Coningsby shrugged his shoulders. 

“ The principal annoyance of this sort of mis- 
carriage,” said Sidonia, “ is the condolence of the 
gentle world. I think we may now depart. I 
am going home to dine. Come, and discuss your 
position. For the present we will not speak of 
it.” So saying, Sidonia good-naturedly got Con- 
ingsby out of the room. 

They walked together to Sidonia’s house in 
Carlton Gardens, neither of them making the 
slightest allusion to the catastrophe; Sidonia in- 
quiring where he had been, what he had been do- 
ing, since they last met, and himself conversing 
in his usual vein, though with a little more feel- 
ing in his manner than was his custom. When 
they had arrived there, Sidonia ordered their din- 
ner instantly, and duving the interval between 
the command and its appearance, he called Con- 
ingsby’s attention to an old German painting he 
had just received, its brilliant coloring and quaint 
costumes. 

“Eat, and an appetite will come,” said Si- 
donia, when he observed Coningsby somewhat 
reluctant. “Take some of that Chablis; it will 
put you right ; you will find it delicious.” 

In this way some twenty minutes passed ; 
their meal was over, and they were alone to- 
gether. 

“ I have been thinking all this time of your 
position,” said Sidonia. 

“ A sorry one I fear,” said Coningsby. 

“ I really cannot see that,” said his friend. 
“You have experienced this morning a disap- 


A DISAPPOINTMENT, NOT A CALAMITY. 


140 


pointment — but not a calamity. If you had lost 
your eye it would have been a calamity ; no com- 
bination of circumstances could have given you 
another. There are really no miseries except 
natural miseries — conventional misfortunes are 
mere illusions. What seems conventionally, in a 
limited view, a great misfortune, if subsequently 
viewed in its results, is often the happiest inci- 
dent in one’s life.” 

“ I hope the day may come when I may feel 
this.” 

“ Now is the moment when philosophy is of 
use ; that is to say, now is the moment when you 
should clearly comprehend the circumstances 
which surround you. Holiday philosophy is mere 
idleness. You think, for example, that you have 
just experienced a great calamity, because you 
have lost the fortune on which you counted ? ” 

“ I must say I do.” 

“ I ask you again, which would you have 
rather lost, your grandfather’s inheritance or your 
right leg ? ” 

“ Most certainly my inheritance.” 

“ Or your left arm ? ” 

“ Still the inheritance.” 

“Would you have received the inheritance on 
condition, that your front teeth should be knock- 
ed out ? ” 

“ No.” 

“Would you have given up a year of your 
life for that fortune trebled ? ” 

“ Even at twenty-three, I would have refused 
the terms.” 

“ Come, come, Coningsbv, the calamity cannot 
be very great.” 

“ Why, you have put it in a very ingenious 
point of view ; and yet it is not so easy to con- 
vince a man, that he should be content, who has 
lost everything ? ” 

“You have a great many things at this mo- 
ment that you separately prefer to the fortune 
that you have forfeited. How then can you be 
said to have lost everything ? ” 

“ What have I ? ” said Coningsby, despond- 
ingly. 

“You have health, youth, good looks, great 
abilities, considerable knowledge, a fine courage, 
a lofty spirit, and no contemptible experience. 
With each of these qualities one might make a 
fortune ; the combination ought to command the 
highest.” 

“ You console me,” said Coningsby, with a 
faint blush and a fainter smile. 

“ I teach you the truth. That is always sola- 
cing. I think you are a most fortunate young 
man ; I should not have thought you more fortu- 
nate if you had been your grandfather’s heir ; per- 
haps less so. But I wish you to comprehend 
your position ; if you understand it, you will cease 
to lament.” 

“ But what should I do ? ” 

“ Bring your intelligence to bear on the right 
object. I make you no offers of fortune, because 
I know you would not accept them, and indeed I 
have no wish to see you a lounger in life. If you 
had inherited a great patrimony, it is possible 
your natural character and previous culture might 
have saved you from its paralysing influence ; but 
it is a question, even with you. Now you are 
f ree — that is to say, you are free, if you are not 


in debt. A man who has not seen the world, 
whose fancy is harassed with glittering images of 
pleasures he has never experienced, cannot live on 
£300 per annum ; but you can. You have noth- 
ing to haunt your thoughts, or disturb the abstrac- 
tion of your studies. You have seen the most 
beautiful wbmen ; you have banqueted in palaces ; 
you know what heroes, and wits, and statesmen 
are made of ; and you can draw on your memory 
instead of your imagination for all those dazzling 
and interesting objects that make the inexperi- 
enced restless, and are the cause of what are 
called scrapes. But you can do nothing if you be 
in debt. You must be free. Before, therefore, 
we proceed, I must beg you to be frank on this 
head. If you have any absolute or contingent 
incumbrances, tell me of them without reserve, 
and permit me to clear them at once to any 
amount. You will sensibly oblige me in so do- 
ing; because I am interested in watching your 
career, and if the racer start with a clog my psy- 
chological observations will be imperfect.” 

“ You are, indeed, a friend ; and had I debts I 
would ask you to pay them. I have nothing of 
the kind. My grandfather was so lavish in his 
allowance to me that I never got into difficulties. 
Besides, there are horses and things without end 
which I must sell, and money at Drummond’s.” 

“ That will produce your outfit, whatever the 
course you adopt. I conceve there are two ca- 
reers which deserve your consideration. In the 
first place, there is Diplomacy. If you decide 
upon that, I can assist you. There exist between 
me and the Minister such relations that I can at 
once secure you that first step which is so difficult 
to obtain. After that, much, if not all, depends 
on yourself. But I could advance you, provided 
you were capable. You should, at least, not lan- 
guish for want of preferment. In an important 
post, I could throw in your way advantages which 
would soon permit you to control cabinets. In- 
formation commands the world. I doubt not 
your success, and for such a career, speedy. Let 
us assume it as a fact. Is it a result satisfactory ? 
Suppose yourself in a dozen years a Plenipoten- 
tiary at a chief court, or at a critical post, with a 
red ribbon and the Privy Council in immediate 
perspective ; and after a lengthened career, a 
pension and a peerage. Would that satisfy you ? 
You don’t look excited. I am hardly surprised. 
In your position, it would not satisfy me. A 
Diplomatist is, after all, a phantom. There is a 
want of nationality about his being. I always 
look upon Diplomatists as the Hebrews of poli- 
tics; without country, political creeds, popular 
convictions, that strong reality of existence 
which pervades the career of an eminent citizen 
in a free and great country.” 

“ You read my thoughts,” said Coningsby. “ I 
should be sorry to sever myself from England.” 

“ There remains then the other, the greater, 
the nobler career,” said Sidonia, “ which in Eng- 
land may give you all — the Bar. I am absolute- 
ly persuaded that with the requisite qualifica- 
tions, and with perseverance, success at the Bar 
is certain. It may be retarded or precipitated 
bv circumstances, but cannot be ultimately af- 
fected. You have a right to count with your 
friends on no lack of opportunities when you are 
ripe for them. You appear to me to have all 


150 


CONINGSBY. 


the qualities necessary for the Bar : and you may 
count on that perseverance which is indispensa- 
ble for the reason I have before mentioned, be- 
cause it will be sustained by your experience.'” 

“ I have resolved,” said Coningsby ; “ I will 
try for the Great Seal.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

/ 

Alone in his chambers, no longer under the 
sustaining influence of Sidonia’s converse and 
counsel, the shades of night descending and bear- 
ing gloom to the gloomy, all the excitement of 
his spirit evaporated, the heart of Coningsby 
sank. All now depended on himself, and in that 
self he had no trust. Why should he succeed ? 
Success was the most rare of results. Thou- 
sands fail ; units triumph. And even success 
could only be conducted to him by the course of 
many years. His career, even if prosperous, 
was now to commence by the greatest sacrifice 
which the heart of man could be called upon to 
sustain. Upon the stern altar of his fortunes he 
must immolate his first and enduring love. Be- 
fore, he had a perilous position to offer Edith ; 
now he had none. The future might then have 
aided them ; there was no combination which 
could improve his present. Under any circum- 
stances, he must, after all his thoughts and 
studies, commence a new novitiate, and before he 
could enter the arena must pass years of silent 
and obscure preparation. ’Twas very bitter. 
He looked up, his eye caught that drawing of the 
towers of Hellingsley which she had given him 
in the days of their happy hearts. That was all 
that was to remain of their loves. He was to 
bear it to the future scene of his labors, to remind 
him through revolving years of toil and routine, 
that he too had had his romance, had roamed in fair 
gardens, and whispered in willing ears the secrets 
of his passion. That drawing was to become the 
altar-piece of his life. 

Coningsby passed an agitated night of broken 
sleep, waking often with a consciousness of 
having experienced some great misfortune, yet 
with a very indefinite conception of its nature. 
He woke exhausted and dispirited. It was a 
gloomy day, a raw north-easter blowing up the 
cloisters of the Albany, in which the fog was lin- 
gering, the newspaper on his breakfast-table, full 
of rumored particulars of his grandfather’s will, 
which had of course been duly digested by all 
who knew him. What a contrast to St. Gene- 
vieve ! To the bright, bracing morn of that merry 
Christmas ! That radiant and cheerful scene, 
and those gracious and beaming personages, 
seemed another world and order of beings to the 
one he now inhabited, and the people with whom 
he must now commune. The Great Seal in- 
deed ! It was the wild excitement of despair, 
the frenzied hope that blends inevitably with ab- 
solute rflin, that could alone have inspired such 
a hallucination ! His unstrung heart deserted 
him. His energies could rally no more. He 
gave orders that he was at home to no one ; 
and in his morning gown and slippers, w r ith his 
feet resting on the fireplace, the once high-souled 


and noble-hearted Coningsby delivered himself up 
to despair. 

The day passed in a dark trance rather than 
a reverie. Nothing rose to his consciousness. 
He was like a particle of chaos; at the best, a 
glimmering entity of some shadowy Hades. 
Towards evening the wind changed, the fog dis- 
persed, there came a clear starry night, brisk and 
bright. Coningsby roused himself, dressed, and 
wrapping his cloak around him, sallied forth. 
Once more in the mighty streets, surrounded by 
millions, his petty griefs and personal fortunes 
assumed their proper position. Well had Sidonia 
taught him, view everything in its relation to the 
rest. ’Tis the secret of all wisdom. Here was 
the mightiest of modern cities ; the rival even of 
the most celebrated of the ancient. Whether he 
inherited or forfeited fortunes, what was it to the 
passing throng ? They would not share his splen- 
dor, or his luxury, or his comfort. But a word 
from his lip, a thought from his brain, expressed 
at the right time, at the right place, might turn 
their hearts, might influence their passions, 
might change their opinions, might affect their 
destiny. Nothing is great but the personal. As 
civilization advances, the accidents of life be- 
come each day less important. The power of 
man, his greatness and his glory, depend on 
essential qualities. Brains every day become 
more precious than blood. You must give 
men new ideas, you must teach them new 
words, you must modify their manners, you must 
change their laws, you must root out prejudices, 
subvert convictions, if you wish to be great. 
Greatness no longer depends on rentals, — the 
world is too rich ; nor on pedigrees, — the world 
is too knowing. 

“ The greatness of this city destroys my mis- 
ery,” said Coningsby, “ and my genius shall con- 
quer its greatness ! ” 

This conviction of power in the midst of de- 
spair was a revelation of intrinsic strength. It is 
indeed the test of a creative spirit. From that 
moment all petty fears for an ordinary future 
quitted him. He felt that he must be prepared 
for great sacrifices, for infinite suffering; that 
there must devolve on him a bitter inheritance 
of obscurity, struggle, envy, and hatred, vulgar 
prejudice, base criticism, petty hostilities, but the 
dawn would break, and the hour arrive, when the 
welcome morning hymn of his success and his 
fame would sound and be re-echoed. 

He returned to his rooms; calm, resolute. 
He slept the deep sleep of a man void of anxiety, 
that has neither hope nor fear to haunt his vis- 
ions, but is prepared to rise on the morrow col- 
lected for the great human struggle. 

Aud the morning came. Fresh, vigorous, not 
rash or precipitate, yet determined to lose no 
time in idle meditation, Coningsby already re- 
solved at once to quit his present residence, was 
projecting a visit to some legal quarter, where he 
intended in future to reside, when his servant 
brought him a note. The handwriting was femi- 
nine. The note was from Flora. The contents 
were brief. She begged Mr. Coningsby, with 
great earnestness, to do her the honor and the 
kindness of calling on her at his earliest conven- 
ience, at the hotel in Brook Street where she now 
resided. 


GENEROSITY OF FLORA. 


151 


It was an interview which Coningsby would 
rather have avoided; yet it- seemed to him, after 
a moment’s reflection, neither just, nor kind, nor 
manly, to refuse her request. Flora had not in- 
jured him. She was, after all, his kin. Was it 
for a moment to be supposed that he was envious 
of her lot ? He replied, therefore, that in an 
hour he would wait upon her. 

In an hour, then, two individuals are to be 
brought together whose first meeting was held 
under circumstances most strangely different. 
Then Coningsby was the patron, a generous and 
spontaneous one, of a being obscure, almost 
friendless, and sinking under bitter mortification. 
His favor could not be the less appreciated be- 
cause he was the chosen relative of a powerful 
noble. That noble w r as no more ; his vast inher- 
itance had devolved on the disregarded, even de- 
spised actress, whose suffering emotions Coningsby 
had then soothed, and whose fortune had risen 
on the destruction of all his prospects and the 
balk of all his aspirations. 

Flora was alone when Coningsby was ushered 
into the room. The extreme delicacy of her ap- 
pearance was increased by her deep mourning; 
and seated in a cushioned chair, from which she 
seemed to rise with an effort, she certainly pre- 
sented little cf the character of a fortunate and 
prosperous heiress. 

“You are very good to come to me,” she 
said, faintly smiling. 

Coningsby extended his hand to her affection- 
ately, in which she placed her own, looking 
down much embarrassed. 

“ You have an agreeable situation here,” said 
Coningsby, trying to break the first awkwardness 
of their meeting. 

“ Yes ; but I hope not to stop here long.” 

“ You are going abroad ? ” 

“ No ; I hope never to leave England ! ” 

There was a slight pause ; and then Flora 
sighed and said : 

“ I wish to speak to you on a subject that 
gives me pain ; yet of which I must speak. Y ou 
think I have injured you ? ” 

“ I am sure,” said Coningsby, in a tone of 
great kindness, “ that you could injure no one.” 

“ I have robbed you of your inheritance.” 

“ It tvas not mine by any right, legal or mor- 
al. There were others who might have urged an 
equal claim to it ; and there are many who will 
now think that you might have preferred a supe- 
rior one.” 

“You had enemies; I was not one. They 
sought to benefit themselves by injuring you. 
They have not benefited themselves; let them 
not say that they have at least injured you.” 

« We will care not what they say,” said Con- 
ingsby ; “ I can sustain my lot.” 

“ Would that I could mine ! ” said Flora. Sh,e 
sighed again with a downcast glance. Then 
looking up embarrassed and blushing deeply, she 
added, “ I wish to restore to you that fortune of 
which I have unconsciously and unwillingly de- 
prived you.” 

“The fortune is yours, dear Flora, by every 
right,” said Coningsby, much moved; “and 
there is no one who wishes more fervently that it 
may contribute to your happiness than I do.” 

“It is killing me,” said Flora, mournfully; 


then speaking with unusual animation, with a de- 
gree of excitement, she continued, “ I must tell 
what I feel. This fortune is yours. I am happy 
in the inheritance, if you generously receive it 
from me, because Providence has made me the 
means of baffling your enemies. I never thought 
to be so happy as I shall be if you will generously 
accept this fortune, always intended for you. I have 
lived then for a purpose; I have not lived in 
vain ; I have returned to you some service, how- 
ever humble, for all your — goodness to me iu my 
unhappiness.” 

“You are, as I have ever thought you, the 
kindest and most tender-hearted of beings. But 
you misconceive our mutual positions, my gentle 
Flora. The custom of the world does not permit 
such acts to either of us as you contemplate. The 
fortune is yours. It is left you by one on whose 
affections you had the highest claim. I will not 
say that so large an inheritance does not bring 
with it an alarming responsibility ; but you are 
not unequal to it. Have confidence in yourself. 
You have a good heart; you have good sense; 
you have a well-principled being. Your spirit 
will mount with your fortunes, and blend with 
them. You will be happy.” 

“ And you ? ” 

“I shall soon learn to find content, if not 
happiness, from other sources,” said Coningsby ; 
“ and mere riches, however vast, could at no time 
have secured my felicity.” 

“ But they may secure that which brings 
felicity,” said Flora, speaking in a choking voice, 
and not meeting the glance of Coningsby. “ You 
had some views in life which displeased him who 
has done all this ; they may be, they must be, 
affected by this fatal caprice. Speak to me, for I 
cannot speak, dear Mr. Coningsby; do not let me 
believe that I, who would sacrifice my life for 
your happiness, am the cause of such calamities !” 

“ Whatever be my lot, I repeat I can sustain 
it,” said Coningsby, with a cheek of scarlet. 

“ Ah ! he is angry with me,” exclaimed Flora, 
“ he is angry with me ! ” and the tears stole down 
her pale cheek. 

“No, no, no! dear Flora; I have no other 
feelings to you than those of affection and re- 
spect,” and Coniugsby, much agitated, drew his 
chair nearer to her, and took her hand. “ I am 
gratified by these kind wishes, though they are 
utterly impracticable ; but they are the witnesses 
of your sweet disposition and your noble spirit. 
There never shall exist between us, under any 
circumstances, other feelings than those of kin 
and kindness.” 

He rose as if to depart. When she saw that, 
she started, and seemed to summon all her ener- 
gies. 

“ You are going,” she exclaimed, “ and I 
have said nothing — I have said nothing; and I 
shall never see you again. Let me tell you what 
I mean. This fortune is yours ; it must be yours. 
It is an arrow in my heart. Do not think I am 
speaking from a momentary impulse. I know 
myself. I have lived so much alone, I have had 
so little to deceive or to delude me, that I know 
myself. If you will not let me do justice you de- 
clare my doom. I cannot live if my existence is 
the cause of all your prospects being blasted, and 
the sweetest dreams of your life being defeated. 


152 


CONINGSBY. 


When I die these riches will be yours ; that you 
cannot prevent. Refuse my present offer, and 
you seal the fate of that unhappy Flora whose 
fragile life has hung for years on the memory of 
your kindness.” 

“ You must not say these words, dear Flora ; 
you must not indulge in these gloomy feelings. 
You must live, and you must live happily. You 
have every charm and virtufe which should secure 
happiness. The duties and the affections of ex- 
istence will fall to your lot. It is one that will 
always interest me, for I shall ever be your 
friend. You have conferred on me one of the 
most delightful of feelings — gratitude, and for 
that I bless you. I will soon see you again.” 
Mournfully he bade her farewell. 


CHAPTER Y. 

About a week after this interview with Flora, 
as Coningsby one morning was about to sally 
forth from the Albany to visit some chambers in 
the Temple to which his notice had been at- 
tracted, there was a loud ring, a bustle in the 
hall, and H$nry Sydney and Buckhurst were 
ushered in. 

There never was such a cordial meeting ; and 
yet the faces of his friends were serious. The 
truth is, the paragraphs in the newspapers had 
circulated in the country, they had written to 
Coningsby, and after a brief delay he had con- 
firmed their worst apprehensions. Immediately 
they came up to town. Henry Sydney, a younger 
son, could offer little but sympathy, but he de- 
clared it was his intention also to study for the 
bar, so that they should not be divided. Buck- 
hurst after many embraces and some ordinary 
talk, took Coningsby aside, and said, “ My dear 
fellow, I have no objection to Henry Sydney hear- 
ing everything I say, but still these are subjects 
which men like to be discussed in private. Of 
course, I expect you to share my fortune. There 
is enough for bcth. We will have an exact di- 
vision.” , 

There was something in Buckhurst’s fervent 
resolution very loveable and a little humorous, 
just enough to put one in good temper with hu- 
man nature and life. If there were any fellow’s 
fortune in the world that Coningsby would share, 
Buckhurst’s would have had the preference; but 
while he pressed his hand, and with a glance in 
which a tear and a smile seemed to contend for 
mastery, he gently indicated why such arrange- 
ments were, with our present manners, impossible. 

“ I see,” said Buckhurst, after a moment’s 
thought, “ I quite agree with you. The thing 
cannot be done ; and, to tell you the truth, a for- 
tune is a bore. What I vote that we three do at 
once is, to take plenty of ready money, and en- 
ter the Austrian service. By Jove ! it is the only 
thing to do.” 

“ There is something in that,” said Conings- 
by. “ In the meantime, suppose you two fellows 
walk with me to the Temple, for I have an ap- 
pointment to look at some chambers.” 

It was a fine day, and it was by no means a 
gloomy walk. Though the two friends had ar- 
rived full of indignation against Lord Monmouth, 


and miserable about their companion, once more 
in his society, and finding little difference in his 
carriage, they assumed unconsciously their ha- 
bitual tone. As for Buckhui’st, he was delighted 
with the Temple, which he visited for the first 
time. The name enchanted him. The tombs in 
the church convinced him that the Crusades were 
the only career. He would have himself become 
a law student if he might have prosecuted his 
studies in chain armor. The calmer Henry Syd- 
ney was consoled for the misfortunes of Conings- 
by by a fanciful project himself to pass a portion 
of his life amid these halls and courts, gardens 
and terraces, that maintain in the heart of a great 
city, in the nineteenth century, so much of the 
grave romance and picturesque decorum of our 
past manners. Henry Sydney was very san- 
guine ; he was reconciled to the disinheritance 
of Coningsby by the conviction that it was a 
providential dispensation to make him a Lord 
Chancellor. 

These faithful friends remained in town with 
Coningsby until he was established in Paper 
Buildings, and had become a pupil of a cele- 
brated special pleader. They would have re- 
mained longer had not he himself suggested that 
it was better that they should part. It seemed a 
terrible catastrophe after all the visions of their 
boyish days, their college dreams, and their 
dazzling adventures in the world. 

“And this is the end of Coningsby, the bril- 
liant Coningsby, that we all loved, that was to 
be our leader ! ” said Buckhurst to Lord Henry 
as they quitted him. “Well, come what may, 
life has lost something of its bloom.” 

“ The great thing now,” said Lord Henry, “ is 
to keep up the chain of our friendship. We 
must write to him very often, and contrive to be 
frequently together. It is dreadful to think that 
in the ways of life our hearts may become es- 
tranged. I never felt more wretched than I do 
at this moment, and yet I have faith that we 
shall not lose him.” 

“Amen!” said Buckhurst; “but I feel mv 
plan about the Austrian service was, after all, the 
only thing. The continent offers a career. He 
might have been prime minister: several stran- 
gers have been ; and as for war, look at Brown 
and Laudohn, and half a hundred others. I had 
a much better chance of being a field-mai’sbal 
than he has of being a Lord Chancellor.” 

“ I feel quite convinced that Coningsby will 
be Lord Chancellor,” said Henry Sydney, 
gravely. 

This change of life for Coningsby was a great 
social revolution. It was sudden and complete. 
Within a month after the death of his grand- 
father his name had been erased from all his 
fashionable clubs, his horses and carriages sold, 
and be had become a student of the Temple. He 
entirely devoted himself to his new pursuit. His 
being was completely absorbed in it. There was 
nothing to haunt his mind ; no unexperienced 
scene or sensation of life to distract his intelli- 
gence. One sacred thought alone indeed there 
remained, shrined in the innermost sanctuary 
of his heart and consciousness. But it was a 
tradition, no longer a hope. The moment that 
he had fairly recovered from the first shock of 
his grandfather’s will — had clearly ascertained 


A POLITICAL CRISIS. 


153 


the consequences to himself, and had resolved 
on the course to pursue — he had communicated 
unreservedly with Oswald Millbank, and had re- 
nounced those pretensions to the hand of his sis- 
ter which it ill became the destitute to prefer. 

His letter was answered in person. Millbank 
met Henry Sydney and Buckhurst at the cham- 
bers of Coningsby. Once more they were all 
four together; but under what different circum- 
stances, and with what different prospects from 
those which attended their separation at Eton ! 
Alone with Coningsby, Millbank spoke to him 
things which letters could not convey. He bore 
to him all the sympathy and devotion of Edith ; 
but they would not conceal from themselves that, 
at this moment, and in the present state of 
affairs, all w r as hopeless. In no way did Con- 
ingsby ever permit himself to intimate to Oswald 
the cause of his disinheritance. He was, of 
course, silent on it to his other friends ; as any 
communication of the kind must have touched 
on a subject that was consecrated in his inmost 
soul. 


CHAPTER VI. 

The state of political parties in England in 
the spring of 1841 offered a most remarkable 
contrast to their condition at the period com- 
memorated in the first chapter of this work. 
The banners of the Conservative camp at this 
moment lowered on the Whig forces, as the gath- 
ering host of the Norman invader frowned on 
the coast of Sussex. The Whigs were not yet 
conquered, but they were doomed ; and they 
themselves knew it. The mistake which was 
made by the Conservative leaders in not retain- 
ing office in 1839 — and, whether we consider 
their conduct in a national and constitutional 
light, or as a mere question of political tactics 
and party prudence, it was unquestionably a 
great mistake — had infused into the corps of 
Whig authority a kind of galvanic action, which 
only the superficial could mistake for vitality. 
Even to form a basis for their future operations, 
after the conjuncture of ’39, the Whigs were 
obliged to make a fresh inroad on the revenue, 
the daily increasing debility of which was now 
arresting attention and exciting public alarm. 
It was clear that the catastrophe of the govern- 
ment would be financial. 

Under all the circumstances of the case, the 
conduct of the Whig Cabinet, in their final prop- 
ositions, cannot be described as deficient either 
in boldness or prudence. The policy which they 
recommended was in itself a sagacious and 
spirited policy ; but they erred in supposing that, 
at the period it was brought forward, any meas- 
ure promoted by the Whigs could have obtained 
general favor in the country. The Whigs were 
known to be feeble ; they were looked upon as 
tricksters. The country knew they were opposed 
by a very powerful party ; and though there cer- 
tainly never was any authority for the belief, the 
country did believe that that powerful party 
were influenced by great principles — had in their 
view a definite and national policy — and would 
secure to England, instead of a feeble adminis- 


tration and fluctuating opinions, energy and a 
creed. 

The future effect of the Whig propositions of 
’41 will not be detrimental to that party, even if 
in the interval they be appropriated piecemeal, 
as will probably be the case, by their Conserva- 
tive successors. But for the moment, and in the 
plight in which the Whig party found themselves, 
it was impossible to have devised measures more 
conducive to their precipitate full. Great inter- 
ests were menaced by a weak government. The 
consequence was inevitable. Tadpole and Taper 
saw it in a moment. They snuffed the factious 
air, and felt the coming storm. Notwithstanding 
the extreme congeniality of these worthies, there 
was a little latent jealousy between them. Tad- 
pole worshipped Registration : Taper adored a 
Cry. Tadpole always maintained that it was the 
winnowing of the electoral lists that could alone 
gain the day ; Taper, on the contrary, faithful to 
ancient traditions, was ever of opinion that the 
game must ultimately be won by popular clamor. 
It always seemed so impossible that the Conser- 
vative party could ever be popular; the extreme 
graciousness and personal popularity of the lead- 
ers not being sufficiently apparent to be esteemed 
an adequate set-off against the inveterate odium 
that attached to their opinions ; that the Tadpole 
philosophy was the favored tenet in high places ; 
and Taper had had his knuckles well rapped more 
than once for manoeuvring too actively against 
the New Poor-law, and for hiring several link- 
boys to bawl a much-wronged lady’s name in the 
Park when the .Court prorogued Parliament. 

And now, after all, in 1841, it seemed that 
Taper was right. There was a great clamor in 
every quarter, and the clamor was against the 
Whigs and in favor of Conservative principles. 
What Canadian timber-merchants meant by Con- 
servative principles, it is not difficult to conjec- 
ture ; or West Indian planters. It was tolerably 
clear on the hustings what squires and farmers, 
and their followers, meant by conservative prin- 
ciples. What they mean by Conservative prin- 
ciples now is another question : and whether 
Conservative principles mean something higher 
than a perpetuation of fiscal arrangements, some 
of them very impolitic, none of them very impor- 
tant. But no matter what different bodies of 
men understood by the cry in which they all 
joined — the Cry existed. Taper beat Tadpole ; 
and the great Conservative party beat the shat- 
tered and exhausted Whigs. 

Notwithstanding the abstraction of his legal 
studies, Coningsby could not be altogether insen- 
sible to the political crisis. In the political world 
of course he never mixed, but the friends of his 
boyhood were deeply interested in affairs, and 
they lost no opportunity wdiich he would permit 
them, of cultivating his society. Their occasional 
fellowship, a visit now and then to Sidonia, and a 
call sometimes on Flora, who lived at Richmond, 
comprised his social relations. His general ac- 
quaintance did not desert him, but he was out of 
sight, and did not wish to be remembered. Mr. 
Ormsby asked him to dinner, and occasionally 
mourned over his fate in the bow window of 
White’s; while Lord Eskdale even went to see 
him in the Temple, was interested in his progress, 
and said, with an encouraging look, that, when he 


154 


CONING SB Y. 


was called to the bar, all his friends must join and 
get up the steam. Coningsby had once met Mr. 
Rigby, who was walking with the Duke of Agin- 
court, which was probably the reason he could 
not notice a lawyer. Mr. Rigby cut Coningsby. 

Lord Eskdale had obtained from Villebeeque 
accurate details as to the cause of Coningsby 
being disinherited. Our hero, if one in such fallen 
fortunes may still be described as a hero, had 
mentioned to Lord Eskdale his sorrow that his 
grandfather had died in anger with him ; but 
Lord Eskdale, without dwelling on the subject, 
had assured him that he had reason to believe 
that if Lord Monmouth had lived, affairs would 
have been different. He had altered the disposi- 
tion of his property at a moment of great and 
geueral irritation and excitement ; and had been 
too indolent, perhaps really too indisposed, which 
he was unwilling ever to acknowledge, to recur to 
a calmer and more equitable settlement. Lord 
Eskdale had been more frank with Sidonia, and 
had told him all about the refusal to become a 
candidate for Darlford against Mr. Millbank ; the 
communication of Rigby to Lord Monmouth, as 
to the presence of Oswald Millbank at the castle, 
and the love of Coningsby for his sister ; all these 
details, furnished by Villebeeque to Lord Eskdale, 
had been truly transferred by that nobleman to 
his co-executor ; and Sidonia, when he had suffi- 
ciently digested them, had made Lady Wallinger 
acquainted with the whole history. 

The dissolution of the Whig Parliament by 
the Whigs, the project of which had reached Lord 
Monmouth a year before, and yet in which no- 
body believed to the last moment, at length took 
place. All the world was dispersed in the heart 
of the season, and our solitary student of the 
Temple, in his lonely chambers, notwithstanding 
all his efforts, found his eye rather wander over 
the pages of Tidd and Chitty as he remembered 
that the great event to which he had so looked 
forward was now occurring, and he, after all, was 
no actor in the mighty drama. It was to have 
been the epoch of his life ; when he was to have 
found himself in that proud position for which all 
the studies, and meditations, and higher impulses 
of his nature, had been preparing him. It was a 
keen trial of a man. Every one of his friends and 
old companions were candidates, and with san- 
guine prospects. Lord Henry was certain for a 
division of his county; Buckhurst harangued a 
large agricultural borough in his vicinity ; Eustace 
Lyle and Vere stood in coalition for a Yorkshire 
town ; and Oswald Millbank solicited the suffrages 
of an important manufacturing constituency. 
They sent their addresses to Coningsby. He was 
deeply interested as he traced in them the influ- 
ence of his own mind; often recognised the very 
expressions to which he had habituated them. 
Amid the confusion of a general election, no un- 
impassioned critic had time to convass the lan- 
guage of an address to an isolated constituency ; 
yet an intelligent speculator on the movements of 
political parties might have detected in these pub- 
lic declarations some intimation of new views, and 
of atone of political feeling that has unfortunately 
been too long absent from the public life of this 
country. 

It was the end of a sultry July day, the last 
ray of the sun shooting down Pall Mall sweltering 


with dust; there was a crowd round the doors of 
the Carlton and the Reform Clubs, and every now 
and then an express arrived with the agitating 
bulletin of a fresh defeat or anew triumph. Con- 
ingsby was walking up Pall Mall. He was going 
to dine at the Oxford and Cambridge Club, the 
only club on whose list he had retained his name, 
that he might occasionally have the pleasure of 
meeting an Eton or Cambridge friend without the 
annoyance of encountering any of his former fash- 
ionable acquaintances. He lighted in his walk on 
Mr. Tadpole and Mr. Taper, both of whom he 
knew. The latter did not notice him, but Mr. 
Tadpole, more good-natured, bestowed on him a 
rough nod, not unmarked by a slight expression 
of coarse pity. 

Coningsby ordered his dinner, and then took 
up the evening papers, where he learned the re- 
turn of Vere and Lyle ; and read a speech of 
Buckhurst denouncing the Venetian Constitution, 
to the amazement of several thousand persons, 
apparently not a little terrified by this unknown 
danger, now first introduced to their notice. Be- 
ing true Englishmen, they were all against Buck- 
hurst’s opponent, who was of the Venetian party, 
and who ended by calling out Buckhurst for his 
personalities. 

Coningsby had dined, and was reading in the 
library, when a waiter brought up a third edition 
of the “ Sun,” with electioneering bulletins from 
the manufacturing districts to the very latest 
hour. Some large letters ■which expressed the 
name of Darlford caught his eye. There seemed 
great excitement in that borough ; strange pro- 
ceedings had happened. The column was head- 
ed, “ Extraordinary Affair ! Withdrawal of the 
Liberal Candidate ! Two Tory Candidates in the 
field ! ! ! ” 

His eye glanced over an animated speech of 
Mr. Millbank, his countenance changed, his heart 
palpitated. Mr. Millbank had resigned the rep- 
resentation of the town, but not from weakness ; 
his avocations demanded his presence ; he had 
been requested to let his son supply his place, 
but his son was otherwise provided for ; he should 
always take a deep interest in the town and trade 
of Darlford ; he hoped that the link between the 
borough and Hellingslev would be ever cherished 
(loud cheering) ; he wished in parting from them 
to take a step which should conciliate all parties, 
put an end to local heats and factious contentions, 
and secure the town an able and worthy repre- 
sentative. For these reasons he begged to pro- 
pose to them a gentleman who bore a name which 
many of them greatly honbred ; for himself, he 
knew the individual, and it was his firm opinion 
that whether they considered his talents, his char- 
acter, or the ancient connection of his family 
with the district, he could not propose a candi- 
date more worthy of their confidence than Harry 
Coningsby, Esq. 

This proposition was received with that wild 
enthusiasm which occasionally bursts out in the 
most civilised communities, the contest between 
Millbank and Rigby was equally balanced, neither 
party was over -confident. The Conservatives 
were not particularly zealous in behalf of their 
champion ; there was no Marquess of Monmouth 
and no Coningsby Castle now to back him ; he 
was fighting on his own resources, and he was a 


CHANGE OF FORTUNE. 


155 


beaten horse. The Liberals did not like the pros- 
pect of a defeat, and dreaded the mortification of 
Rigby’s triumph. The Moderate men, who thought 
more of local than political circumstances, liked 
the name of Coningsby. Mr. Millbank had dex- 
terously prepared his leading supporters for the 
substitution. Some traits of the character and 
conduct of Coningsby had been cleverly circulated. 
Thus there was a combination of many favorable 
causes in his favor. In half an hour’s time his 
image was stamped on the brain of every inhabit- 
ant of the borough as an interesting and accom- 
plished youth, who had been wronged, and who 
deserved to be rewarded. It was whispered that 
Rigby was his enemy. Magog Wrath and his 
mob offered Mr. Millbank’s committee to throw 
Mr. Rigby into the river, or to burn down his 
hotel, in case he was prudent enough not to show. 
Mr. Rigby determined to fight to the last. All 
his hopes were now staked on the successful re- 
sult of this contest. It were impossible if he were 
returned that his friends could refuse him high 
office. The whole of Lord Monmouth’s reduced 
legacy was devoted to this end. The third edition 
of the “ Sun ” left Mr. Rigby in vain attempting 
to address an infuriated populace. 

Here was a revolution in the fortunes of our 
forlorn Coningsby ! When his grandfather first 
sent for him to Monmouth House, his destiny was 
not verging on greater vicissitudes. He rose from 
his seat, and was surprised that all the silent gen- 
tlemen who were about him did not mark his 
agitation. Not an individual there that he knew. 
It was now an hour to midnight, and to-morrow 
the almost unconscious candidate was to go to the 
poll. In a tumult of suppressed emotion, Cou- 
ingsby returned to his chambers. He found a 
letter in his box from Oswald Millbank, who had 
been twice at the Temple. Oswald had been re- 
turned without a contest, and had reached Darl- 
ford in time to hear Coningsby nominated. He 
set off instantly to London, and left at his friend’s 
chambers a rapid narrative of what had happened, 
with information that he should call on him again 
on the morrow at nine o’clock, when they were 
to repair together immediately to Darlford in time 
for Coningsby to be chaired, for no one enter- 
tained a doubt of his triumph. 

Coningsby did not sleep a wink that night, 
and yet when he rose early felt fresh euough for 
any exploit, however difficult or hazardous. He 
felt as an Egyptian does when the Nile rises after 
its elevation had been despaired of. At the very 
lowest ebb of his fortunes, an event had occurred 
which seemed to restore all. He dared not con- 
template the ultimate result of all these wonder- 
ful changes. Enough for him, that when all 
seemed dark, he was about to be returned to 
Parliament by the father of Edith, and his van- 
quished rival who was to bite the dust before him 
was the author of all his misfortunes. Love, Ven- 
geance, Justice, the glorious pride of having 
acted rightly, the triumphant sense of complete 
and absolute success — here were chaotic materi- 
als from which order was at length evolved ; and 
all subsided in an overwhelming feeling of grat- 
itude to that Providence that had so signally 
protected him. 

There was a knock at the door. It was Os- 
wald. They embraced. It seemed that Oswald 


was as excited as Coningsby. His eye sparkled, 
his manner was energetic. 

“ We must talk it all over during our journey. 
We have not a minute to waste.” 

During that journey Coningsby learned some- 
thing of the course of affairs which gradually had 
brought about so singular a revolution in his favor. 
We mentioned that Sidonia had acquired a thor- 
ough knowledge of the circumstances which had 
occasioned and attended the disinheritance of Con- 
ingsby. These he had told to Lady Wallinger, 
first by letter, afterwards in more detail on her 
arrival in London. Lady Wallinger had con- 
ferred with her husband. She was not surprised 
at the goodness of Coningsby, and she sympa- 
thised with all his calamities. He had ever been 
the favorite of her judgment, and her romance 
had always consisted in blending his destinies 
with those of her beloved Edith. Sir Joseph was 
a judicious man, who never cared to commit him- 
self ; a little selfish, but good, just, and honora- 
ble, with some impulses, only a little afraid of 
them ; but then his wife stepped in like an angel, 
and gave them the right direction. They were 
both absolutely impressed with Coningsby’s ad- 
mirable conduct, and Lady Wallinger was deter- 
mined that her husband should express to others 
the convictions which he acknowledged in unison 
with herself. Sir Joseph spoke to Mr. Millbank, 
who stared — but Sir Joseph spoke feebly. Lady 
Wallinger conveyed all this intelligence and all 
her impressions, to Oswald and Edith. The 
younger Millbank talked with his father, who, 
making no admissions, listened with interest, in- 
veighed against Lord Monmouth, and condemned 
his will. 

After some time, Mr. Millbank made inquiries 
about Coningsby, took an interest in his career, 
and, like Lord Eskdale, declared that when he 
was called to the bar, his friends would have an 
opportunity to evince their sincerity. Affairs 
remained in this state, until Oswald thought that 
circumstances were sufficiently ripe to urge his 
father on the subject. The position which Os- 
wald had assumed at Millbank had necessarily 
made him acquainted with the affairs and fortune 
of his father. When he computed the vast 
wealth which he knew was at his parent’s com- 
mand, and recalled Coningsby in his humble 
chambers, toiling after all his noble efforts with- 
out any results, and his sister pining in a provin- 
cial solitude, Oswald began to curse wealth, and 
to ask himself what was the use of all their mar- 
vellous industry and supernatural skill ? He ad- 
dressed his father with that irresistible frankness' 
which a strong faith can alone inspire. What 
are the objects of wealth, if not to bless those 
who possess our hearts ? The only daughter, 
the friend to whom the only son was indebted for 
his life — here are two beings surely whom one 
would care to bless, and both are unhappy. Mr. 
Millbank listened without prejudice, for he was 
already convinced. But he felt some interest in 
the present conduct of Coningsby. A Coningsby 
working for his bread was a novel incident for 
him. He wished to be assured of its authentici- 
ty. He was resolved to convince himself of the 
fact. And perhaps he would have gone on yet 
for a little time, and watched the progress of the 
experiment, already interested and delighted by 


156 


CONINflSBY. 


what had reached him, had not the dissolution 
brought affairs to a crisis. The misery of Os- 
wald at the position of Coningsby, the silent sad- 
ness of Edith, his own conviction, which assured 
him that he could do nothing wiser or better than 
take this young man to his heart, so ordained it 
that Mr. Millbank, who was after all the creature 
of impulse, decided suddenly, and decided right- 
ly. Never making a single admission to all the 
representations of his son, Mr. Millbank in a mo- 
ment did all that his son could have dared to de- 
sire. 

This is a very imperfect and crude intimation 
of what had occurred- at Millbank and Hellings- 
ley; yet it conveys a faint sketch of the en- 
chanting intelligence that Oswald conveyed to 
Coningsby during their rapid travel. When they 
arrived at Birmingham, they found a messenger 
and a despatch, informing Coningsby, that at 
mid-day, at Darlford, he was at the head of the 
poll by an overwhelming majority, and that Mr. 
Rigby had resigned. He was, however, requested 
to remain at Birmingham, as they did not wish 
him to enter Darlford, except to be chaired, so 
he was to arrive there in the morning. At Bir- 
mingham, therefore, they remained. 

There was Oswald’s election to talk of as 
well as Coningsby’s. They had hardly had time 
for this. Now they were both Members of Par- 
liament. Men must have been at school together, 
to enjoy the real fun of meeting thus, and realis- 
ing boyish dreams. Often, years ago, they had 
talked of these things, and assumed these results ; 
but those were words and dreams, these were 
positive facts ; after some doubts and struggles, 
in the freshness of their youth, Oswald Millbank 
and Harry Coningsby were members of the 
British Parliament ; public characters, responsi- 
ble agepts, with a career. 

This afternoon, at Birmingham, was as happy 
an afternoon as usually falls to the lot of man. 
Both of these companions were laboring under 
that degree of excitement which is necessary to 
felicity. They had enough to talk about. Edith 
was no longer a forbidden or a sorrowful subject. 
There was rapture in their again meeting under 
such circumstances. Then there were their 
friends ; that dear Buckhurst, who had just 
been called out for styling his opponent a Vene- 
tian, and all their companions of early days. 
What a sudden and marvellous change in all 
their destinies ! Life was a pantomime ; the 
wand was waved, and it seemed that the school- 
fellows had of a sudden become elements of 
power, springs of the great machine. 

A train arrived; restless they sallied forth, 
to seek diversion in the dispersion of the passen- 
gers. Coningsby and Millbank, with that glance, 
a little inquisitive, even impertinent, if we must 
confess it, with which one greets a stranger when 
he emerges from a public conveyance, were loun- 
ging on the platform. The train arrived ; stopped ; 
the doors were thrown open, and from one of 
them emerged Mr. Rigby ! Coningsby, who. had 
dined, was greatly tempted to take off* his hat 
and make him a bow, but he refrained. Their 
eyes met. Rigby was dead beat. He was evi- 
dently used up ; a man without a resource ; the 
sight of Coningsby his last blow ; he had met his 
fate. 


“ My dear fellow,” said Coningsby, “ I remem- 
ber I wanted you to dine with my grandfather 
at Montcm, and that fellow would not ask you. 
Such is life ! ” 

About eleven o’clock the next morning they 
arrived at the Darlford station. Here they were 
met by an anxious deputation, who received Con- 
ingsby as if he were a prophet, and ushered him 
into a car covered with satin and blue ribbons, 
and drawn by six beautiful grey horses, capari- 
soned in his colors, and ridden by postilions, 
whose very whips were blue and white. Trium- 
phant music sounded ; banners waved ; the multi- 
tude were marshalled ; the Free Masons, at the 
first opportunity, fell into the procession ; the 
Odd Fellows joined it at the nearest corner. 
Preceded and followed by thousands, with colors 
flying, trumpets sounding, and endless huzzas, 
flags and handkerchiefs waving from every win- 
dow, and every balcony filled with dames and 
maidens bedecked with his colors, Coningsby 
was borne through enthusiastic Darlford like 
Paulus Emilius returning from Macedon. Un- 
covered, still in deep mourning, his fine figure, 
and graceful bearing, and his intelligent brow, 
at once won every female heart. 

The singularity was that all were of the same 
opinion ; everybody cheered him, every house 
was adorned with his colors. His triumphal 
return was no party question. Magog Wrath 
and Bully Bluck -walked together like lambs at 
the head of his procession. 

The car stopped before the principal hotel in 
the High Street. It was Mr. Millbank’s commit- 
tee. The broad street was so crowded, that, as 
every one declared, you might have walked on 
the heads of the people. Every window was 
full ; the very roofs were peopled. The car 
stopped, and the populace gave three cheers for 
Mr. Millbank. Their late member, surrounded 
by his friends, stood in the balcony, which was 
fitted up with Coningsby’s colors, and bore his 
name oil the hangings in gigantic letters formed 
of dahlias. The flashing and inquiring eye of 
Coningsby caught the form of Edith, who was 
leaning on her father’s arm. 

The hustings were opposite the hotel, and 
here, after a while, Coningsby was carried, and, 
stepping from his car, took up his post to ad- 
dress, for the first time, a public assembly. 
Anxious as the people were to hear him, it w T as 
long before their enthusiasm could subside into 
silence. At length that silence was deep and 
absolute. He spoke ; his powerful and rich 
tones reached every ear. In five minutes’ time 
every one looked at his neighbor, and without 
speaking they agreed that there never was any- 
thing like this heard in Darlford before. 

He addressed them for a considerable time, 
for he had a great deal to say ; not only to ex- 
press his gratitude for the unprecedented man- 
ner in which he had become their representative, 
and for the spirit in which they had greeted him, 
but he had to offer them no niggard exposition 
of the views and opinions of the member whom 
they had so confidingly chosen, without even a 
formal declaration of his sentiments. 

He did this with so much clearness, and in a 
manner so pointed and popular, that the deep 
attention of the multitude never wavered. His 


MARRIAGE. 


lively illustrations kept them often in continued 
merriment. But when towards his close he drew 
some picture of what he hoped might be the 
character of his future and lasting connection 
with the town, the vast throng w 7 as singularly 
affected. There were a great many present at 
that moment who, though they had never seen 
Coningsby before, would willingly have then died 
for him. Coningsby had touched their hearts, 
for he had spoken from his own. His spirit had 
entirely magnetised them. Darlford believed in 
Coningsby : and a very good creed. 

And now Coningsby was conducted to the op- 
posite hotel. He walked through the crowd. The 
progress was slow', as every one wished to shake 
hands with him. His friends, however, at last 
safely landed him. He sprang up the stairs ; he 
was met by Mr. Millbank, w T ho welcomed him 
w'ith the greatest warmth, and offered his hearty 
congratulations. 

“It is to you, dear sir, that I am indebted for 
all this,” said Coningsby. 

“No,” said Mr. Millbank, “it is to your own 
high principles, great talents, and good heart.” 

After he had been presented by the late mem- 
ber to the principal personages in the borough, 
Mr. Millbank said — 

“ I think we must now give Mr. Coningsby a 
little rest. Come with me,” he added, “here is 
some one who will be very glad to see you.” 

Speaking thus, he led our hero a little away, 
and placing his arm in Coningsby’s with great 
affection opened the door of an apartment. 
There was Edith, radiant with loveliness and 
beaming with love. Their agitated hearts told at 
a glance the tumult of their joy. The father 
joined their hands, and blessed them with words 
of tenderness. 


CHAPTER VII. 

The marriage of Coningsby and Edith took 
place early in the autumn. It was solemnised at 
Millbank, and they passed their first moon at 
Hellingsley, which place was in future to be the 
residence of the member for Darlford. The estate 
was to devolve to Coningsby after the death of 
Mr. Millbank, who in the meantime made ar- 
rangements which permitted the new'lv-married 
couple to reside at the Hall in a manner becom- 
ing its occupants. All these settlements, as Mr. 
Millbank assured Coningsby, w'ere effected not only 


157 

r with the sanction, but at the express instance of 
his son. 

An event, however, occurred not very long 
after the marriage of Coningsby, which rendered 
this generous conduct of his father-in-law no 
longer necessary to his fortunes, though he never 
forgot its exercise. The gentle and unhappy 
daughter of Lord Monmouth quitted a scene with 
which her spirit had never greatly sympathised. 
Perhaps she might have lingered in life for yet a 
little while, had it not been for that fatal inherit- 
ance which disturbed her peace and embittered 
her days, haunting her heart with the recollection 
that she had been the unconscious instrument 
of injuring the only being whom she loved, and 
embarrassing and encumbering her with duties 
foreign to her experience and her nature. The 
marriage of Coningsby had greatly affected her, 
and from that day she seemed gradually to de- 
cline. She died towards the end of the autumn, 
and, subject to an ample annuity to Villebecque, 
she bequeathed the whole of her fortune to the 
husband of Edith. Gratifying as it was to him 
to present such an inheritance to his w T ife, it was 
not without a pang that he received the intelli- 
gence of the death of Flora. Edith sympathised 
in his affectionate feelings, and they raised a 
monument to her memory in the gardens of Hel- 
lingsley. 

Coningsby passed his next Christmas in his 
own hall, with his beautiful and gifted wife by his 
side, and surrounded by the friends of his heart 
and his youth. 

They stand now on the threshold of public life. 
They are in the leash, but in a moment they will 
be slipped. What will be their fate ? Will they 
maintain in august assemblies and high places 
the great truths which, in study and in solitude, 
they have embraced ? Or will their courage ex- 
haust itself in the struggle — their enthusiasm 
evaporate before hollow-hearted ridicule — their 
generous impulses yield with a vulgar catastrophe 
to the tawdry temptations of a low ambition ? 
Will their skilled intelligence subside into being 
the adroit tool of a corrupt party ? Will Vanity 
confound their fortunes, or Jealousy wither their 
sympathies ? Or will they remain brave, single, 
and true — refuse to bow before shadows and wor- 
ship phrases — sensible of the greatness of their 
position, recognise the greatness of their duties — 
denounce to a perplexed and disheartened world 
the frigid theories of a generalizing age that have 
destroyed the individuality of man, and restore 
the happiness of their country by believing in 
their own energies, and daring to be great ? 


THE END. 


































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MAMMALIA : their various Orders and Habits Popularly Illustrated by 
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Uniform with “ The World Before the Deluge,” “ The Vegetable World,” “The Ocean World,” “Birds 
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RED AS A ROSE IS SHE. A Novel. By the author of “Cometh Up as 

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A NEW UNIFORM LIBRARY EDITION OF GRACE A GUI- 

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APPLET ON S' ANNUAL CYCLOPAEDIA FOR 1869. This book, as 

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QUEEN II ORTENSE ; a Life-Picture of the Napoleonic Era. By Louisa 

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THE NATURAL SPEAKER; being Selections to aid the Student in ac- 
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MAR Y'S GRAMMAR , interspersed with Stories, and intended for the Use 

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THE LIFE OF DANIEL WEBSTER. By George Ticknor Curtis. 

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MRS. GERALD' S NIECE. A Novel. By Lady Georgiana Fullerton, 

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LIBRARY OF CHOICE NOVELS. 

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Included In the series are the following: 

1. Lady Alice; or, The New Una. Price 60 cts. 

2. Cometh up as a Flower. An Autobiography. Price 60 cts. 

3. Not Wisely, but Too Well. v By the Author of “Cometh up as a 

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4. Marguerite; or, Two Loves. Price 25 cts. 

5. Two Life-Paths. A Romance. By Louisa Muhlbach. Price 

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6. The Man Who Laughs. By Victor Hugo. Price $1.25. 

7. The Dead Guest. By Heinrich Zschokke. Price 50 cts. 

8. The Lost Manuscript. By the Author of “ Debit and Credit.” 

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9. Mademoiselle Fifty Millions. By the Countess Dash. Price 

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10. The Woman of Business. By the Author of “ The Bachelor of 

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11. The Three Brothers. By Mrs. Olipiiant. (In press.) 

12. Red as a Rose is She. By the Author of “ Cometh up as a 

Flower.” Price 60 cts. 

13. Mrs. Gerald’s Niece. By Lady Georgiana Fullerton. Price 60 cts. 

14. Ralph the Heir. By Anthony Trollope. (In press.) 

15. A Race for a Wife. By Hawley Smart. Price 50 cts. 

16. Breezie Langton. By Hawley Smart. Price 75 cts. 

17. Henrietta Temple. By the Right lion. B. Disraeli. Price 50 cts. f 

18. Venetia. By the Right Hon. B. Disraeli. Price 50 cts. 

19. The Young Duke. By the Right Hon. B. Disraeli. Price 50 cts. 

20. Alroy. By the Right Hon. B. Disraeli. Price 50 cts. 

21. Contarini Fleming. By the Right Hon. B. Disraeli. Price 50 cts. 

22. Vivian Grey. By the Right Hon. B. Disraeli. Price 60 cts. 

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24. Silvia. By Julia Kavanagh. Price 75 cts. 

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